Making you See
by MissMadRabbit
Summary: [Updated] Hannibal is entranced with Will Graham. The man has the potential to understand him, to see him, and to be like him. However, Will is burdened by his morals and decency which blinds him. Hannibal will make him see just how alike they truly are. (Will become Hannigraham. Non-canon compliment later as they are sinking my ship, it seems. Rate M: Violence, later lemons.)
1. Chapter 1

_Authors note: This is a second version of this chapter. Um. This is my first time writing Fanfiction, please be kind. But honest. This will become Hannigraham, and probably non-canon compliant as I have noticed that as S2 progressed, it is becoming increasingly hard to justify my ship - they are sinking it, and sinking it well. Which is unfortunate because the -show- demonstrates that the two are very compatible. I'm rambling...um. I hope you enjoy it._

Emotions are intangible, irrational, and non-complacent to an individual's desires. Hannibal continuously found himself perplexed at the concept. Emotions were something so simple and mundane, and yet they could control the people around him, as though commanded by them - God's of an individual's actions to dictate and rule over them, for them to obey mindlessly like sheep. That was not to say Hannibal was without emotions, no, yet he was also not a sheep within the flock. He was the shepherd. He was lead by more than something so simplistic as fundamental human emotion, 'feelings' as he found himself considering every action with deliberation. Each movement of his, everything he did was precise and controlled, dictated by cold, rational logic. Whether or not the logic, or the reasoning was to be shared by those around him did not bother him in the slightest. Foundations are different for all, after all. However, it did sometimes lead to complications, such as when the FBI agent Jack Crawford intruded into his home, and attempted to introduce himself to a patient - Franklyn of all people. Franklyn, who had not the sense of mind to realize that used napkins did not go onto the table top.

Hannibal found himself both wary and irritated, looking Crawford up and down, and in his irritation, told him to go to the waiting room. While it was the respectful, decent thing to do, Hannibal was far from decent, and as he entered his office again, he poured himself a new glass of wine, and savoured it knowing that agent Jack Crawford was outside, twiddling his thumbs in wait. Toying with people was a habit Hannibal could not help - even as he glanced at his watch, and realized that a reasonable amount of time had passed, before proceeding to take another sip of his wine and sit down. Petty though it may be, Hannibal felt as though it was more than justified - someone like Franklyn who couldn't tell peasants from posies was not to be gifted, even briefly, with his name.

Hannibal finished his wine, and finally ventured to invite Crawford in. It was borderline rude to keep someone waiting for too long. However, he immediately regretted his acquiescence of letting Crawford in when the man responded to his inquiry with his own. Knowing why the FBI agent, he felt, was fundamental to the conversation, and he did not care to answer any questions prior to knowing the man's intent. Nonetheless, Hannibal responded, only to find himself more irate in prescience for the upcoming conversation, wariness ebbed away by a great deal of annoyance. The man seemed to think that this was social hour, and just because Hannibal was not anticipating another client did not mean that he had better things to do than discuss his secretary, his drawing of his boarding school (which lay atop a medical drawing that Hannibal was tempted to show him. He had long ago considered hiding it after a young trainee had found it, and he had been forced to make her...indisposed. Yet, he had not for instances like this, in which someone like Crawford would see it, and he would be able to end the nuisance, or swat a fly.)

Nevertheless, Hannibal listened with rapt attention. This conversation, after all, was 'all about him.' Hannibal. The Chesapeake Ripper. Not that he had broadcasted the information, but a certain amount of attention ought to be given to agents that investigated that sort of thing. However, Crawford, as it seemed was a disappointment. He seemed far too delighted in mind-numbing chit chat rather than anything of any real significance or value. Not that Hannibal was particularly shocked, after all, Crawford had been dim-witted enough to believe that Franklyn was he. He was still so acutely aware of his own disgust at the concept. Yet, when Crawford refers to himself as a layman, Hannibal, unable to be rude, offers praise - hoping only to feed the foolish man's ego. Hannibal was frustrated, but he was careful not to be too overt with his comments. It was one thing to bait, but another to ensnare.

Crawford, at the end of his display of an almost disturbing need for communication, revealed his intentions: he needed a psychological profile of a murderer. Dangerous, mundane, and boring as it was, Hannibal found himself unable to refuse. After all, an opportunity had presented itself to 'peek behind the curtain' if you will. Only wounded prey were foolish enough to seek aid from a predator. They were leading the lion right to the nest, and Hannibal found that enthralling in ideology. He was simply a valuable psychiatrist, and yet, he was so much more than that. He was more profound a presence than that. He had taken from Crawford his peace of mind, his trust in himself after he had taken that trainee, and soon, he would take so much more than hat.

That was what lead him to Crawford's office. The desire to see the thinking of the other side of the chessboard, and yet, it was not what made him stay. While it was a fun game to see how the mice on the other side of the wall scrambled, desperate for scraps, he was more interested in the company he was soon in. A man named Will Graham. Initially, he was far from interesting, rugged, tired, drained, and seeming to stand precariously on the brink between logical rationality and implicit insanity. Yet, within those eyes lay in waiting a mind poisoned and elevated by pure empathy. These eyes refused to meet his own, and even as Hannibal engaged him in conversation, those eyes never wavered from staring fixedly not in his direction. The man's thoughts were "often not tasty," and yet, Hannibal wanted to know them. He wanted to tear that mind open and hear how it sounded. Hannibal was so much more than intrigued - he was excited by the very concept. The potential that this man had was unique, and although the man held it to be a burden, it was a challenge and a goal for Hannibal. This man was so far from ordinary sheep, yet taxed with their expectations. He wanted him to see into his eyes, and prove that he could understand. Hannibal wanted Will Graham to see him.

"Not fond of eye contact, are you?" Hannibal found himself asking, attempting to get him to just look.

"Eyes are distracting. You see too much, you don't see enough. And -" The man stuttered, "And it's hard to focus when you're thinking, um," he paused, and Hannibal tried to suppress a smile at Will's struggle to communicate efficiently as he rambled, apparently not strong in social capacities: "'Oh, those whites are really white,' or 'He must have hepatitis,' or "Oh, is that a burst vein?' So, yeah, I try to avoid eyes whenever possible." He turned his attention away from Hannibal again, apparently considering the conversation over, and disregarding Hannibal. "Jack?" He asked.

And immediately after Jack responded with a crisp "Yes?" Hannibal found himself again frustrated. This man had so much potential to see, but he did not, if he merely looked, he would be able understand Hannibal. This blatant lack of consideration on Will's part baited Hannibal into forcing Will to speak, he wanted to say something, anything to get the other to look at him. "I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind. Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams." And that, quite simply, was what Hannibal had to fix. "No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love." He knew this man, Hannibal did, and the shock on his face made him smirk briefly. See? Hannibal thought. See? Hannibal would get this man to understand, and now he had his attention. Everything he had said was true. Hannibal understood, to some extent Will Graham.

Unfortunately, though, for his efforts, Will stormed out shortly after, infuriated and seething in self-fueling rage inspired by the truth of Hannibal's words. And Hannibal was immediately chastised by Crawford, and yet, he had achieved what he had wanted. He now had the man's attention. Now, all he had to do was make him look more. Look at him, and who he was. Hannibal would help him see the face of others, of Hannibal, and the truth of himself. "I think I can help good Will see his face."

Hannibal found her quickly enough, pretentious as she was, gliding through the streets condescending in her nature. Hannibal did not mind arrogance, but naive rudeness was beyond excusable. She had practically offered himself to him, bumping into him on the street and then having the nerve to bait the beast with edible words, as she shouted "Watch your step, old man!" He was far from old, and she was far from polite, and as he looked at her auburn hair, her eyes, her height, her skin, he couldn't help the smile that found it's way on his lips. She had been exactly what he looking for, and here she was, practically begging him to take her life. It did not take long for him to stalk her, a predator used to the hunt, drug her, and steal from another household a stags head to impale her upon. The planning was simple enough.

Still, when she lay there, in the cold room, he considered briefly which organ to take as she shuddered out desperate pleas, naked, scared, crying. He wanted her to be silent, to take from her the ability to speak, and along with it her last breath. He cut open her chest with that recognition, and tore out her lungs, surgically, sure, but brutally nonetheless. It had been satisfying watching as her inability to breathe, much less enticing to watch as her horrified consciousness slip from those features into a wonderful blankness that only death could provide. She would now, and always, be silent. She had simply been a part of the game he was playing with Will, nevertheless, he would not lower himself to not perform, to not procure his art and display it with righteousness. She deserved this - this humiliation was hers. Regardless of what he did, the FBI would not have the capacity to comprehend more than simple algebra, much less piece together two pieces of evidence, oblivious sheep that flock like half-dead ravens to the nest of the predatory. It was amusing, but also immensely disappointing. How could they not have the capacity to see? They were a disgrace - a mockery to God himself, if there was such a thing, flightless birds going nowhere but blindly to death.

Not that any of that mattered. This was quite simply a gift from himself to Will. And now, all he had to do was wait.

Hannibal found himself at Will's house just three days later. It was a strange little house, in the middle of, as far as Hannibal was concerned, no where, although it was a nice retreat from reality, from the pawns and dullness of reality. Such a separation and detachment was an unsurprising aspect of Will, though, and he was not altogether shocked. Merely in humour that he had anticipated as such. Hannibal knocked on the door, and weary headed, suspicious Will peeked out from behind the door. "Good morning, Will," Hannibal greeted, amused at the other man's state of disarray. "May I come in?"

"Where's Jack?" The other man queried, looking profoundly vexed by the situation, reluctant, and resigned.

"Deposed in court." Hannibal responded, smiling at the man's misconception and lack of understanding of the situation. Hannibal found himself here, unable to avoid the man that intrigued him as such. "The adventure will be yours and mine today."

Will looked thoroughly nonplussed, and Hannibal, starting to becoming impatient with Will's uncomprehending enervated state as he did not respond. repeated: "May I come in?" And Will, wordlessly, opened the door, and entered the house, allowing Hannibal to follow behind him without actually initiating any sort of invitation of itself - which spoke volumes of Will's personality. He let other people in, regardless of his sense of self. Intriguing. Hannibal offered him breakfast, eggs, sausage, tomatoes and various other vegetables. Simple, yet he was still pleased to see Will eat it, unknowing of what, precisely, he was putting into his body, when Hannibal was so conscious of his own.

Hannibal wanted this man to see him as a friend, and as such, he was acutely aware that he had to make an omission that he did not entirely desire: "I would apologize for my analytical ambush, but I know I will soon be apologizing again and you'll tire of that eventually, so, I have to consider using apologies sparingly." And perhaps, when he truly means them. This was not an instance as such, and therefore, his lack of actual apology was intentional. He would not submit himself to issuing something false such as that. Lying was one thing, but pretending to regret what he had said, when he did not, and meant every word of it? Inexcusable.

"Just keep it professional," Will retorted.

"Or we could socialize like adults," Hannibal quipped, feeling annoyed by Will's lack of participation or consideration of him. "God forbid we become friendly."

"I don't find you that interesting." That, in and of itself caught Hannibal's attention and aggravation. He wasn't looking.

"You will," He responded. And in that was a promise, he would force Will to look - to see him. Just as he needed Will to see him, as well as himself. To see how alike they were, and how alike they had the potential to be. In his mind, this man was a possibility, a flower that he would shower and allow to grow to become what was rightfully his to expect. Of that, Hannibal was certain.

Briefly, he attempted to avert the attention to the girl he had left in the field to see if Will had actually understood the intent of the present, if he had achieved his comprehension that he had lacked. A knack for the monsters, he said, using the words, knowing that Will had the ability to understand. Monsters, the word seemed to echo in the room, or perhaps it was just in Hannibal's own ears. He disregarded it as Will ventured onto a stream of explanation as though he was personally invested in the situation, talking about negatives and positives as though they were pro's and con's, like his had been the bad, and the rest were good. Did this man not understand? Murder was simply that: murder. The end of the life. In Will's mind, Hannibal could tell was enough decency to dictate wrong from right, yet it also screamed at him that all murder was wrong. How dare he compare them, like photographs, like good and evil? Such juvenile concepts were beyond the grays of reality. There was no white, and there was no black - just grey. But even as Hannibal found himself deviating from the conversation, from the intention of Will's words, he found himself entranced as the man continued. Imputing comments about fantasies and problems, curious as to Will's reactions. "You ever have any problems, Will?" He questioned.

Will hesitated, and then in an almost disenchanted and drained and yet sarcastic tone. "No."

Hannibal clutched to that. "You and I are just the same - problem free. Nothing about us to feel horrible about." You just need to see it, Will. After a pause, Hannibal added: "You know, Will, I think Uncle Jack sees you as a fragile little tea cup." His use of the word 'uncle' had been intentional - the attachment Jack had on this man was unnatural, and Hannibal disliked it immensely, he hoped that Will would hear the word usage, and that it might, in some strange way, alienate him from the man. He disliked Jack Crawford. He looked at Will in the eyes, "The finest china, used only for special guests."

What surprised him, though, was that Will laughed, catching Hannibal completely off-guard for a moment. The laugh was both amused and hollow, as though he understood it, and some detached part of him honestly found the disgusting situation amusing. Hannibal laughed too, but he was far from amused at the concept. "How do you see me?" He asked Hannibal, and Hannibal considered the question seriously.

In an absolute display of honesty, he responded: The mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by." He watched the smile leave from Will as he looked stricken and confused, as though he only understood slightly what Hannibal's intention was, and yet, couldn't bring himself to fully comprehend. "Eat your breakfast," Hannibal commanded after a short pause, in which Will seemed to mull it over. He wanted Will to understand the words, but it was far too early for him to understand them now.

Hannibal accompanied Will on his venture to collect files on, as far as Hannibal was concerned, very little evidence, and far too many suspects. Will told him to look for anything suspicious, and yet, all of it seemed terribly droll before Will opened a file, and said: "Garrett Jacob Hobbs?" Interrupting, and not answering the annoying woman who had been bitching, vulgarity aside, in this instance the word was appropriate, at some one on the other end of the phone about their presence. It had been starting to grate on Hannibal's nerves, and yet, at the same time, he couldn't be bothered with the woman. Vexed by Will's explanation, yet decidedly curious, he half-hazardly threw a box in the general direction of the woman, or, in appearance, had it slip out of his fingers, on 'accident,' as he went in and dialed Hobb's number. Curiosity, and questioning of Will, brought him to warn the man on the other edge of the phone. What, he wondered, will happen?

Apparently, a great deal of blood, and headless chickens, as Hobb's through his dying wife in Will's direction to offer up a distraction from his daughter. Hannibal glanced at the woman as he walked by; this is what would happen. He felt a strange sort of disgust for the woman, lying there, blind and never being able to see what had laid beside her at night, and now put her down, without a metaphorical head as her neck bled her life from her open skin. She was beyond saving - evidently always had been if she was lead to this point. He heard the gunshots begin before he entered the room, watching as a panicked Will fired, beyond a state of fear into the Hobb's man. He, too, was beyond saving in the wreck of devastation that lay here. Will, in his blind emotion turned his attention to the daughter, bleeding out, having her life slip away from her. Hannibal briefly debated whether or not he should save her, help Will, and he, in the realization that she could, and would be beneficial in so many ways, moved Will's hands out of the way to make room for his own to actually provide help as he applied pressed to minimize the bleeding. And as he left Will there, he considered how fortuitous a profit a phone call would make. This game - no, this performance, was turning into something more spectacular than he had initially envisioned.

He would make Will Graham see.


	2. Chapter 2

_Authors note: Much shorter chapter. Also, the vagueness as to who at the end was intentional. Um. I don't really have much to say. I hope you like it!_

Hannibal's finger's met keys, each press a non-ceasing pattern from which a sorrowful tune lingers, leaving his mind to wander in the familiarity and comfort. The sound of an absolute sadness seemed to echo in the empty walls, all except for him - he was alone, which prior to this point was something he never would have thought he would come to mind. Now, it was not something he cared for - not something he sought. No, he was drowning in his iniquity to be anything but socially exclusive in his own...design. Somewhere, when those eyes that bore a trapped soul met his, he lost his intentions.

And what, precisely, where his intentions? The concept of life and death had always comforted him - and yet, he saw reason for neither. His ability to strange the last thoughts from a mind, and silence another noise seemed to have granted him a power, beyond that of any simplistic ideology of God or purpose. He closed his eyes, and immediately he thought of Will Graham. So wounded and tormented was that man, and yet so drawn was Hannibal. He had seen a thousand men with haunted features and tortured stares, but none of them had so much potential.

Potential.

The word seemed to resound within thoughts - it seemed to be a recurring concept that Hannibal was unable to break free from. The word scared him. Potential implied the possibility for development, and yet, what if Will did not understand, could not bring himself to abandon the ideals and morals of sheep to understand him? To understand himself. It was a vexing truth that Hannibal was gambling, and with such small odds. The man seemed to be fundamental in construction, and yet, his foundations were...faulted. That which supported him was structurally unsound. Hannibal wanted to become that which supported him, so in those eyes, he would see a friend.

Hannibal's eyes opened, and his lips quirked. A friend. Somehow the concept felt foreign in his thoughts - although he had many with whom he was friendly, he had, with a direct association of complete understanding, none. Still, when he looked at Will Graham, he wanted this man to understand him, when he already had the capacity to see, not blinded like the rest of the boring, dull, predictable, yet so complex species of humanity. That was Will's fault - he had far too much humanity. Odd, that word, when the only thing that seemed to be so solely human was logic and cruelty. Will was what he should be. It was beautiful in it's own right. Will Graham was beautiful.

And there was the dilemma - would he taint such a man, or save him? Either seemed a possibility, and both appealed to Hannibal in different ways. More than anything, though, Hannibal simply sought him. Hannibal played the end of the song, and in the dying vestige of the prior, he began again. Bach's Cello Suite No. 5 in C Minor - transposed by himself for the piano. It lacked the depth that the original had, the deep undercurrent tones, but in it's place was blissful clarity. Something Hannibal yearned for, yet seemed to be unable to achieve when it came to Will Graham. He wanted his friendship…

Or did he?

Somehow, even in this moment, he could not define the extent of his desire for Will Graham. He could merely determine, simply and only that he wanted him. He wanted - needed him to see. Again, he smiled, it seemed as though that was all anyone wanted Will Graham to do - was see.

Hannibal's fingers froze above the piano, and the song sounded sick in the sudden silence as it was forced to fade into hollow emptiness once again. Again, Hannibal's phone rang, and he sighed, allowing the thoughts that had him preoccupied to retreat back into the dark recesses of his mind, as he answered. "Dr. Hannibal Lector." Crawford's voice never ceased to annoy him, but learning that Will would be entrusted into him - body and mind. seemed far more important that the trespasses the man had against Hannibal's sense of calm. Irritation gave way to something new. Something far more exciting.

_._

"What's that?"

"Your psychological evaluation. You are totally functional and more or less sane." Hannibal paused for a moment, then adding: "Well done." The remark was meant to be sarcastic and in good humour, as though somehow managing to retain his functionality was a endeavour worth praise, still, Will Graham was obviously wounded, almost like a dog that found itself on the side of the street, whimpering. Yet, Will was silent, unable to make a sound, and so much more than just an animal. It was beyond fascinating to watch Will Graham question his decision to 'rubber stamp' him, while desiring no other alternative. He was a man that disliked intrusion into his mind, yet sought comfort from the horrors it contained. It was a wonderful contradiction.

Still, Hannibal was still unable to keep his biting distaste for Jack Crawford as he intruded into the man's sense of self. "Jack Crawford may lay his weary head to rest knowing he didn't break you and our conversation can proceed unobstructed by paperwork." And that was essential, that this conversation only held elements that was beneficial to his agenda - and not those of Crawford's. Regardless of his self-serving plight and attempt in order to have Will receive therapy, it was infuriating to know that Crawford may break Will Graham before he had the potential to fix him. Or break him, in his own way. Either way, Will was not the property of some simple-minded FBI agent to sniff out blood from the hands of the many.

"Jack thinks I need therapy," Will supplemented, as though to continue the argument, but within Hannibal's mind, he had already played this game, and already taken the King from the chess game. Hannibal had won.

"What you need is a way out of dark places when Jack sends you there."

Will looked slightly hunted, and grave before he responded: "Last time Jack sent me there, I brought something back." Within the shadows of his eyes, Hannibal could see the reflections of life slipping from a bleeding girl, desperately clinging to life, yet also abandoned in defeat - resigned as she to die when every fibre of her being argued otherwise. She had committed a sin she felt as though she could not redeem - this was her price. Hannibal had understood from the very beginning the burden the girl held, which made her essential to the puzzle. To the game that he was playing. No, the performance.

"A surrogate daughter?" Hannibal supplied in the deafening silence. "You saved her life." And even still, he could see him calculating the tolls of death versus the glimpses and gleams of life. "You also orphaned her." Briefly, pain flickered across those eyes, as wells as a hollowness that struck Hannibal, and yet, onward he continued, the damage already done, the seeds already sewn. "That comes with certain emotional obligations, - regardless of empathy disorders." And now, in his mind, they were connected.

Will's eyes flickered to his, briefly, considering his words carefully before responding: "You were there. You saved her life too." He could see the searching in the man's eyes, before he carefully asked: "Do you feel obligated?"

"Yes." It was a quick answer, and yet, briefly it started Hannibal in it's truth. He did feel obligated, but for what purpose, or what reason he was unsure. He felt a strange connection to the girl, and perhaps, she was the key to Will's awakening. "I feel a staggering amount of obligation," He continued, but this time, he realized it wasn't for the girl - it was for Will. He felt obligated to protect the girl...for him. He looked at the man, and the word's fell: "I feel responsibility." So, why, when the words were so true, did they feel so much like a lie?

In that, he could see the words that he was supposed to say, the words that would maintain his appearance of...humanity, as they were reflected in the man before him. "I've fantasized about scenarios where my actions may have allowed a different fate for Abigail Hobbs." He considered the words carefully. The only other scenario he considered was watching her die. Those were the only two options he had ever considered, and even now, those were the only two he thought about. She was inherently valuable, and her worth was in her current state of existence, regardless of how it troubled Will. Her death would not have troubled him - it would have destroyed him. Hannibal knew that.

"Jack thinks Abigail helped her dad kill those girls," Will said. His mind was focused, allowing him no freedom from his thoughts of this girl. The comment surprised him, and he briefly considering the effect it would have on Will to know that she had.

"How does that make you feel?" He questioned.

"How does it make you feel?"

"I find it vulgar," Hannibal supplemented, but just as will quipped his acquiescence, he added: "And entirely possible." She was the one pure thing in his life, untainted by the cruelties of life, and the destruction of death. He wanted to believe that she was scared, and he truly had saved her. Which meant relying on a falsehood to believe that her father was a lone hunter stalking his prey. They had not hunted, Will, much like you, they lured… Interesting how he lured Hannibal to him.

"It's not what happened," Will argued, but there was doubt and self-delusion. He knew the truth, buried deep within himself, but just like the other truth he held inside, he could not bear his mind to admit to it.

"Jack will ask her when she wakes up, or he'll have one of us ask her." Hannibal conceded, finding himself unwilling to break that beautiful painting that Will had constructed to hide the truth that he found so ugly. Will was an artist of his own creation, and unable to see the decorations he places on the hideous.

"Is this therapy, or a support group?" Will asked, pulling Hannibal out of his thoughts.

"It is whatever you need it to be." Hannibal responded. This, too, was honesty. Hannibal had every intention of providing Will with what he needed - regardless of whether or not Will felt it was necessary, unknowing and unwitting, Will would be given what he needed in this room, and Hannibal was going to be the one to offer it. Hannibal looked at the man with a thousand masks who wore not one, and offered a bit more of himself: "And, Will, the mirrors in your mind can reflect the best of yourself, not the worst of someone else." As Will looked inward with disgust, and outward with regret, Hannibal merely looked at him, entranced and yearning for the man to understand what he truly was - better.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: This is also a chapter much shorter than the first. This chapter contains a bit of violence...you have been warned. Also, after this is when things start to...develop a bit more, instead of just being one-sided. So, um. Bear with me?_

Hannibal found himself alone again, in the dark recesses of his thoughts. He had considered talking to his own psychiatrist, as she often gave Hannibal the opinion of the ordinary minded in the words that he desired. She was a medium for understanding, and yet, he found himself unable to find the words that he could even construct to convey his complication. Even he realized that his fascination with Will Graham was borderline obscene in nature - odd in creation and unstable in it's maintenance. Will Graham was unstable - his thoughts that found him back to Hobbs had been the unbinding of the essential. Within the man's mind was an arena, and he found himself fighting nothing but a shadow.

Insanity had the tendency to linger in the face of few, and although Will was not insane, at the hand's of Jack Crawford and his own mind, he would become as such. It was threatening a prospect to consider, losing Will to the darkness of someone who had already ceased to exist - a persistent presence that plagued the haunted man. Even now, when he was doing that which he had been designed to do, to fantasize the divulge in the thinking of murderers, Hannibal was sure that beneath it all, he saw Hobbs. The deceased should simply be that - ceased in control over life, lost in death.

Will should have the capacity to understand those around him, like Hannibal, and yet he was so tormented by ideals of good and evil, justice and injustice. There was just power, and those strong enough to seek it. And even as the thought occurred to Hannibal, he realized he was wrong. Some part of him reminded him that Will was strong, and the taking of a life does privilege power, it does not procure safety or comfort. Will needed comfort before he had the capacity to fully comprehend that which Hannibal needed him to comprehend. Hannibal needed Will to see, but he would never be able to as long as Hobb's had his hands over Will's eyes.

His mind found it's way to the bleeding girl - Abigail. She was still comatose, free from reality and responsibilities, and yet, trapped within her own mind. He wondered what she saw behind those closed eyelids if her brain even processed thought. He was uncertain as to the girl's role, for now, he had mild curiosity and an assured awareness of her value to him, and to Will. She could be his support structure, that which kept him sane...for now. Hannibal recognized that he needed her, the one truly innocent thing in Will's life, and yet, he wanted her to be tainted, beyond repair. Will would not be able to rely on her for long. The thought brought a smile to his lips, and although cruel, he honestly did care.

Which was such an odd thing to consider - that he actually cared about Will, and by association Abigail. While every part of him screamed to pollute the mind, he wanted it to achieve clarity, regardless of whatever means. Hannibal wanted to be seen, and yet, he wanted Will to still be intact at the time. What, precisely, did he want from Will? The word friend resurfaced in his mind, but again it felt foreign, as though it did not belong. Although Hannibal did not have friends, he wanted it of Will - but, at the same time, he did not. What was this reluctance? Hannibal's pen snapped within his hand as he found himself again frustrated. What was this...desire? He hated not understanding himself, when he usually did it so well. His thoughts, his actions all seemed so focused on this singular man...

He needed freedom. Briefly, his mind flickered to a waiter that had been rude to him by telling him he needed to speak 'American' or else he would not be able to understand. Accent or otherwise, he was fairly well spoken, and the man had earned his disdain. He had taken the waiter's card, and now, he found his way to that restaurant and into the man's car, where he sat, silent and waiting. Hannibal had been given both a great deal of patience and impatience, each seeming to waiver and give way to the other before the man finally slipped in, with an exhausted sigh on his lips as he turned the car on. Unfortunately for him, that was as close to home as he got before Hannibal reached forward, and with a piece of rope, pulled the man into unconsciousness. It was fun to watch his struggle as he writhed and twisted, attempting to reach back and fight as the threads, chosen entirely for their strength and brutality cut into that skin of his - so different from the taunt paleness of another man. Briefly, he lost interest, but then it returned to him, more potent and powerful as he dragged the man into the back-seat before driving to the new destination.

He awoke sooner than Hannibal had thought, eyes fluttering open in confusion to find himself dangling from a tree, in the position of Christ, his limbs bound to various branches, and cotton stuffed into his mouth. He attempted to scream, but the sound only mimicked that of a broken gurgle. "Ah," Hannibal exclaimed, looking at him, "Good morning." Muffled protests that resembled the sounds of drowning met Hannibal's ears, and he smiled. "Unfortunately, I cannot seem to understand you. Perhaps if you tried a different dialect?" Hannibal pretended to consider the desperate squeals in response as though they were actual sentiments rather than the pleading of swine. "Perhaps we ought to fix that." He pulled the cotton out, and pried the man's mouth open. A hoarse scream ensued, that only managed to hurt Hannibal's ears rather than do the man any good. Actually, it had done more harm than anything, as Hannibal slowly dragged a scalpel across the man cheek, gently cutting into the flesh before the man began his tortured shrieks and threats began.

Finally, he'd cut far enough in that it became rather easy to remove the tongue, which he severed and dangled before the man who seemed to almost faint at the sight, sickened and bleeding out. "You didn't particularly need it, but I suspect you won't be nearly as chatty" he informed the man who was now barely clinging to conciousness as he choked on his own blood. He dragged a finger against the man's face, coating it in blood. The arousal was almost sexual, as excited as he was to watch the life drain away and pool at the man's feet. He licked the life slipping from the man's, before becoming slightly repulsed. Somehow, something that should not bother him, had never bothered him did. He wanted to spit up the blood as it was not what he wanted and he knew it, yet it was delightful all the same. A smile found it's way onto Hannibal's face as he watched those eyes go dull, and eventually flat, the skin pale and taunt, the way that it should be, so contrasted by the red...

The tongue found it's way into an iced evidence bag, and later into his fridge. He had left the pig there, hung up, a self-believed martyr, although there was a large portion of doubt that he would be found any time in the near future - so far into the woods was he. His work was not given the proper display it deserved and yet, he had been more cautious with his own whims after that Lass girl. Nonetheless, it would be discovered in time. It was not hidden, but also not in sight - and it would get the recognition it deserved.

.-.

It was almost as though he had intended it, Hannibal buttoning each button with such care and deliberation after his shower that they seemed to be like ticks of a clock, counting down the seconds until Will Graham would arrive. He surprised Hannibal, who had just finished the final one, when he heard the knock, and opened the door to find a distraught Will, who tossed a folder onto Hannibal's desk: "This may have been premature." No hello, or any form of greeting, but Hannibal was able to forgive it, instead concerned for the distraught man who looked so close to the edge, it seemed as though, if not before, now with a simple push he could fall in either direction. Madness or clarity.

Hannibal was unsure as to which he wanted more when he asked: "What did you see?" And, as though elaboration was necessary, "out in the field." Hannibal was reluctant to ask anything else that he might have seen, regardless of his wants.

"Hobbs." A simple word, and yet, it held so much weight within the room. Ah, poor tormented soul.

"An association?" He asked, knowing that it was otherwise. Still, he wanted to hear it from those lips.

The words. "A hallucination." He briefly looked stricken, abashed to be forced to admit it, yet afraid of what it would dictate, regardless of what that said about Will as a person. "I saw him lying in someone else's grave."

Hannibal looked at him, so fragile, yet so strong. Fragile...a sickening feeling of disgust overtook him as he asked: "Did you tell Jack?"

"No."

Hannibal tried to to sigh in visible relief as the response. The last thing he wanted was Jack...that idiotic dim-witted flounder to try and interfere with the mind of Will... Hannibal bit his tongue, metaphorically of course, from the insinuation of comments that he had about his opinions on that matter. "It's stress." But even to him the words sounded flawed. "Nothing worth reporting." Hannibal almost smiled - that rang with all sorts of sincerity. He had meant it, and the cruel smirk that tried to fight it's way onto his lips was smothered into professional opinion rather than personal intentions. He considered his words carefully, wondering just how far Will had come to understanding how alike they were: "You displaced the victim of another killer's crime with what could arguably be considered your victim." Another killer. He and Will...just the same...he wondered briefly what Will would look like, covered in another's blood while he revelled instead of shattered.

"I don't consider Hobbs my victim." Lie.

It was such an obvious lie, Hannibal couldn't help it: "What do you consider him?"

"Dead." He seemed to be clinging to that, that the death didn't effect him - yet it was oh, so very obvious, dear Will. It was obvious that the shadow had crawled under your skin and baited the monster and madness within.

"Is it harder imagining the thrill somebody else feels killing, now that you've done it yourself?" That was the only question that mattered, and Hannibal wanted Will to consider it. Although forcing him to answer it seemed to be merely counter-productive, as Will would hide himself in a shell of delusion as he attempt to cover the truth within himself. He decided to discuss the other murdered briefly, to help Will, although the man held no particular interest to Hannibal.

"So maybe he admires their ability to connect the way human minds can't." Will pondered.

Hannibal couldn't help himself: "Your's can." That mind that had so much potential to understand...

Will laughed, and that made Hannibal smile, even as he contradicted Hannibal's statement with an: "Um yeah, not physically."

Hannibal looked at Will, and finally he understood. "Is that what your farmer is looking for? A connection?" Because that was what Hannibal wanted from Will, what he sought - a connection. And finally, Hannibal understood his own intentions, and he found himself both horrified and enthralled. _I see_, he thought. Will Graham was more special than he initially thought.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Another chapter...4 in 4 days. Um. I'm a bit embarrassed with myself. Anyways. Reviews are appreciated... please be honest. Also I found it kind of irritating only telling it from Hannibal's point of view, so there is Will in here, and Will more in the future. Mild reference to sex dreams, not particularly explicit, although I warn later the story will be explicit. Just informing you. So...hope you enjoy it? (Also, this contains the first non-canon scenes. Character development and all that.)_

_._

"Any more dreams or Hallucinations, Will?" Hannibal asked, his voice seeming to break Will from a reverie. Where he had gone, Hannibal was not sure, all he knew was that he wanted him back. He supposed now was the time to ask, now, because he realized that Will meant more to him healed rather than broken. It was such a strange thing to consider - the connections that this man had the capacity to make, and the way he seemed to be able to draw others to him.

Will met him with wavering eyes, seeming tentative to respond, and instead all that ensued was silence, far too long and far too profound to warrant anything other than the resounding, unspoken assent. "In order for this to be beneficial to you, Will, I need to know."

He watched the hesitation on his lips, as he said: "A...stag. I dream of this stag embodied with Raven feathers." He watched Will lick his lips, and confusion seized control of his features as though he regretted saying the words to Hannibal, but he was not quite sure why. The change in expression mesmerized Hannibal, as the man seemed to wrestle with thoughts and feelings he couldn't quite understand.

"A raven stag?" Hannibal queried, "perhaps your mind is putting together images that your concious is unwilling to accept, Will." Ravens pecking at that dead girl in the field, and he looked at Will, marvelling in the comprehension that his brain had the capacity to obtain, even when every fibre of his being fought against it. "What, precisely could this mean?"

Will looked frustrated, as he raised his hands in the air: "I don't know! I don't understand it - it haunts me, I see it in my sleep, and there are times that I see it...and I'm not sure if I'm awake or asleep, all I know is that it is there!" The words flowed from his mouth, seeming to stream from one to another, him losing control as they slipped away from him, breaking, yet freeing.

"Will," Hannibal said softly, approaching the other man. "Will." He merely repeated the name, and the man looked at him, confused, perplexed and frustrated, at odds with himself with no escape, waging a battle that he did not understand, and yet understood so very well. Such conflict, and it was all visible in his eyes - tortured and unstable. His name was the only thing Hannibal could say, before he reached to touch the other's face, gently stroking his cheek before forcing the man's eyes to meet his own, holding his chin upward so he was incapable of looking away.

Those eyes - what colour were they? Somehow they seemed to reflect a forest - greens and browns, and it was far too fitting for the man as they pulled you in. Hannibal's eyes looked from them, to different aspects of his face - the beginning of a beard that shadowed and matured his face, despite it being so soft. Those strong cheekbones, and light pink lips. Fascinating. Beautiful. "Dr. Lecktor?" Hannibal looked at the confused Will, suddenly realizing his lapse of control, and somehow it didn't matter. He withdrew his hand, and with sigh, said quietly beside Will's ear: "There is so much you understand, and yet refuse to see Will." A pause, and then, even lighter, so that he was unsure if Will would be able to determine the words, he quoted: "See?...See?" And in some way, the simplicity of it left him in awe, and Will shivered from the sound.

A few steps backward, and somehow it didn't seem enough. Will was stricken, and Hannibal was shocked within himself. Emotions were irrational, intangible things non-complacent to his own desires (_what were they?)_...they should not dictate him, they should not rule him. And as he looked at Will, he realized he had been a fool to underestimate the power that they had over him. Every movement, every action was supposed be precise and controlled... Will Graham had taken his self-restraint.

"I-uh..." Will Graham looked at a loss for words, and seemed to be grasping around for straws. He was flushed slightly, and Hannibal tried not to fixate on it, before the other sputtered: "I need stability. I need..." He seemed desperate to say what he needed, but even within himself, he did not know the answer: "I need to think. These dreams, these hallucinations..." his eyes that had seemed distant suddenly flickered to Hannibal's face and away again..."These thoughts..."

"You need to understand them," Hannibal supplied.

"Yes." It was a brief answer, yet so confident in it's response that it seemed to just hang in the air, exuding finality.

Hannibal smiled at the look of determination and fear, and a strange complex maze of emotions that lie within, and simply said: "I understand."

Will smiled back, hesitant and wary, but honest: "Goodbye Dr. Lecter."

"Goodbye," Hannibal merely mimicked, opening the door for Will to exit, and revealing... Miss Kimbell who was looking slightly flustered. "Miss Kimbell?" He asked. It had not taken him long to realize who she was - he has suspected it on the phone, her insistence as she practically pleaded with him for the specific time...after Will Graham. Nonetheless, it still bothered him immensely. She had recorded their conversation, his and Will's... and that made him exceptionally uncomfortable and a great deal angry. And even as she tried to lie to him, her curiosity about Will only frustrated him. "You have been terribly rude Ms. Lounds. Now what's to be done about that?"

Her eyes reminded him of prey, wide and afraid as they met his own. She did not answer, but he did not particularly want her to. He did not much care to hear her speak again. He looked around his room as he spoke, "Now, Ms. Lounds, it seems you have an inherent curiosity about Will Graham. Many do. However, I would like to clarify a certain point: you, nor anyone else has the right to be privy to him." He looked at a Rembrandt on the other side of the wall, and felt conflicted feelings as he always did when he looked at it. It suited the office, but he did not much care for it. Perhaps he ought to replace it. "I suggest minding your own business Ms. Lounds." His voice was clear, cold, distant, and yet distinctly threatening, and he could still feel her eyes on him.

"I think it is my business if that which is meant to defend the people will be the one to hurt it!" She snapped, angry. "Will Graham is insane."

"Will Graham is intelligent beyond..." His eyes widened as they fell on the onyx stag statue, and briefly he found himself without words. A stag. Ravens...ravens had ate the flesh... something to impale and tear the flesh, and another to eat it - a singular entity. His lips tilted upward into a smirk. _Beyond even his own scope of understanding_. He finished.

_._

Hannibal listened to Bach's Cello suite no. 4, the prelude, as it played in the background, finding it more entertaining than Jack's company as he offered him "loin, served with a Cumberland sauce of red fruits."

He fought back that cruel smirk as he replied to Jack in an controlled passive voice: "Pork," when asked what the loin was. _Oh, Uncle Jack_, the name was bitter and mocking within his mind, _why do you even try? _He sat, and feigned interest in Jack's upbringing, not even finding it within himself an ounce of actual interest that his mother used to make what seemed like a horrible concoctions of various ingredients.

"...I was raised thin as a youngster." He continued, and Hannibal's mind immediately retorted: _didn't stay that way, it seems._ He tried not to frown at his own rudeness, shaking the thought from his mind.

"I'd love to have you both for dinner," He said in response to some comment about his wife. Oh, food puns, he honestly could not help himself, but the idea was exciting... He wanted to take everything from Crawford. He was breaking Will, and hunting him. Honestly, he could not find a redeeming quality about the man if he tried. He watched with a sick sort of thrill as Crawford vocalized pleasure at the meat. It disgusted and amused him.

"So, why do you think Will Graham - came back to see you?" Crawford asked. Hannibal's eyes flickered to Crawford, the question like a weight on his mind.

Without any real belief in his own words he replied: "I'm sure he recognizes the necessity of his own support structure if he is to go on supporting you in the field." But that was not true.

Even Crawford knew that: "Well, I believe that a guy like Will Graham knows exactly what's going on inside of his head, which is why he doesn't want anyone else up there." Hannibal wanted to slice his neck right then and there. Will was a mess and it was this man's fault...

"Are you not accustomed to broken ponies in your stable?" Hannibal asked, careful to keep the anger out of his tone.

"You think Will Graham's a broken pony?" Crawford asked, looking up at Hannibal curiously and slightly...hurt. As though the question offended Crawford in some way. That only annoyed Hannibal more, for reasons beyond his comprehension. It seemed where Will Graham was concerned, it was all beyond Hannibal's comprehension.

"I think you think Will is a broken pony." Hannibal retorted. "Have you ever lost a pony, Jack?" He queried. _Because if you do not stop this, you are going to lose Will..._

Again, Jack looked offended: "If you're asking me whether or not I've ever lost someone in the field, the answer is yes.  
Why?"

"I want to understand why you're so delicate with Will." The statement was drenched in lost sarcasm before he asked:  
"Because you don't trust him, or because you're afraid of losing another pony?" Hannibal wanted Jack to consider that - what he was doing to Will. Somehow, the question only seemed to be imbued with contempt that went unnoticed. Jack Crawford, when it came to Will, was anything but delicate. The night proceeded with ease, especially after he had managed to rid his household of annoying presences and he found himself alone. The day was old, and the night stretched before him, and the only thing he sought was sleep to escape his weariness and occupied mind.

Yet, his mind found itself thinking in the abyss. Hannibal dreamt that night, for the first time in a long time, and it was of forest eyes and soft lips, pale skin and dark hair. He awoke, trying to fight off impressioned images and the sound of his name on desperate sighs. His fingers curled in satin sheets, and the thought flickered through his mind: _I am not supposed to feel this way... _And somehow, a strange sort of pain settled in his chest at the thought. Hannibal was not supposed to love.

_._

Will woke up, his breath escaping him in ragged gasps, his shirt clinging to him with sweat. A remnant of his dream threw itself to the forefront of his mind, immediately drawing a blush from him as he buried his face in his hands. A voice echoed in his ear, playfully cruel, teasing and seductive as it asked him: "See?" This was beyond wicked, as he found himself seeking his psychiatrist..._Hannibal._

Prior to this he had never even considered himself remotely homosexual, or particularly inclined in any direction other than seeking comfort. Alana Bloom had provided that, in the form of a beautiful woman, and yet, his interest in her was shallow at best as his mind replicated an accented voice in his head, taunting him, and whispering his name. He felt shame: how could he? Somehow, his hands covering his face did not seem to be enough - he wanted to hide from the world, from himself, from his thoughts. The violent fantasies that found lurking inside his mind was familiar, but this...this was a whole new territory.

He moved his body uncomfortably, trying to ignore everything except for the way his shirt was trying to suffocate him, sticking like a second layer of skin. He peeled it off slowly, trying to focus on that action and that action alone as he sat in the darkness of his room, trying, _trying_ not to think. He shuddered when the cold air hit his skin, and then jumped in surprise when his phone rang. A wariness crept up his spine as he lifted it, praying in the back of his mind to a God he didn't believe in that it was not Hannibal - anything, anyone but Hannibal.

"Hello?" He could hear the sleep and trepidation of his own voice as it came out husky and hesitant.

"Will? It's Jack Crawford. Can you come to the station?" He heard the man ask, but in the question there was the undeniable undertone: 'Get your ass up, and get over here. It's not a choice. It's a demand.' Will sighed. He seemed to be doing a lot of that this morning...and that was when he saw the time and jumped out of his bed.

"Yeah, I'll be right there," the words came out in a rush. It was 13:47. How had he managed to sleep in that late? He shook his dream away, and instead focused on the mentality of a psychopath. It was only ironic how he found solstice in that...


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: I was going to tell this episode by episode, but I quickly (i.e. while writing the last chapter) found that incredibly tedious and boring. Ooops. Anyways, very little of this chapter is actually canon. Um. Enjoy? (Also, I loathe Crawford. Probably realized that already.)_

After Abigail had woken up, Hannibal had become more of a support structure for Will, as he found himself considering the idea of family. Will was taking an overwhelmingly large amount of responsibility upon himself, and it was interesting to watch him reach toward Hannibal - the only one that had shared the experience that bound him to Abigail. And somehow the burden was making him both more and less stable. "I find myself seeing the stag more frequently..." Will began, looking to Hannibal, shadows from lost sleep under his eyes. "I'm starting to question if I only see it when I am asleep."

"The waking world is merely the reality that we share," Hannibal responded. "Dreams are the reality within your mind. If the dreams are forming hallucinations, perhaps your mind is starting to consider that the two might be intertwined. This stag, why does it stalk you?"

"It doesn't stalk..." Will said slowly... "it follows." The correction seemed to be more of a realization as it slipped from Will's lips, and he briefly looked confused by the statement.

"Follows? Why do you choose that word instead?" Hannibal paused. "Stalks, follows; is it not there when you do not want it to be there, nevertheless what you call it?"

"Stalks implied a sort of predatory intention," Will responded.

"And you question its intention?" Hannibal asked.

"No, I know it's intention...I question it's method." Will looked out the window, seeming to think aloud as he often did in these conversations. "Initially, it was threatening...but now, now it's a presence. I feel as though it is trying to tell me something, and protect me from something, but what I do not know. How can a hallucination have expectations, how can it protect?" Will asked, shaking his head. "It's in my mind, and yet I feel as though it is not a part of it."

"It is an entity beyond your scope of understanding. You say it has expectations - what is its expectations?"

Will shook his head again, this time less noticeably. "It isn't. Just...I feel like it is speaking and I am deaf to the words. Whatever message it is trying to convey, I am not hearing, and that is what it expects me to do - to understand."

Briefly, Hannibal's eyes flickered to the onyx figure as Will talked, an involuntary reaction to his words, and Will caught the reaction, overt as it might have been, and followed his gaze to the statue. "This..." Almost as though he were caught in a horrified spell, he walked, pulled by an invisible web as he approached it. He looked from it to Hannibal, then back again, a tentative hand reaching toward it.

"You say the stag wants you to understand, and yet you do not comprehend what it is asking of you. Have you considered that it, quite simply, wants you to see it for what it truly is? To know it's identity, and sympathize with it? Perhaps, Will, all it wants is you." Hannibal suggest and he watched that confused expression change from something like shock to something indistinguishable and unreadable.

"It killed that girl in the field. It killed Melissa. It ate her," the words left those soft lips harsh, cold and clipped. He paused again, something flickering beyond those forest eyes as he repeated: "It ate her." Those eyes met Hannibal's, distant and detached.

Hannibal smiled bitterly, "It wanted you to understand. You have the capacity, you know, buried within you, and yet so appalled by yourself you are you have hidden it so deep in the darkness of your mind, coating it with self-imposed morality. Will, think."

Will knocked the statue on the floor - a feat Hannibal was sure was more difficult than Will made it appear as it was quite heavy, "I cannot think about this!" He was shouting, his body shaking and he could almost see Will shatter inside as something that was supposed to keep him stable failed him. Hannibal reached out, putting a hand on Will's shoulder, and he could feel the shorter man trembling.

"You know it's intention, Will," Hannibal whispered calmly, but he was pleading, "what was it trying to do?"

"To make me see..." Will replied, his voice also hushed, but beaten into such a tone by rage and fear.

"And?" Hannibal pushed.

"To protect me," His voice was almost inaudible now, spoken just lowly enough for Hannibal to hear. "To make me see. And to protect me..."

Hannibal drew closer to Will's ear, "Now, why would he do that?" He asked, but his voice was low, drawing out of him in a seductive sort of dominance and Will looked frightened in response, but it was quickly eradicated as something dark took over. Something hungry.

Will pushed Hannibal's hand aside, and said: "We shall see." He walked out of the room, leaving Hannibal behind him with a wicked smile.

_._

Will ran a hand backward through his hair, letting a laugh escape his lips as he looked at the nurse. It was inappropriate, he knew that, and yet he could not help it. The poor nurse was dead, her empty eyes seeing nothing, crying tears of blood in her embrace. Embrace - that was an odd word, as she found herself impaled through with various medical instruments. Will closed his eyes, and watched as the pendulum tocked the time away, and he found himself throwing the nurse against the door frame, torturing her, and slowly taking from her what was his. She was nothing, and yet there was a kindness...he let her feel fear and pain, yes, but it was short lived as the deed meant more than actually doing it. "This isn't you," he said, looking dispassionately at the corpse, before going to fetch Crawford, his mind rifling through images back to Melissa...back to the girl in the field.

This was plagiarism, it was more of a feeling than any real actual evidence, but Will knew that Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper with an almost absolute certainty. It was too similar, when he considered it, the surgical trophies to feast upon, and the humiliation. Hannibal hated rudeness. Will closed his eyes again, for just a moment, and sighed, relaxing into the darkness as he forced his mind to process the information. It was hard...it felt as though he were swallowing something unknown and allowing it to meld into his flesh and mind. The cohesion of madness was astonishing. Will shook his head at himself, this isn't madness.

He left the FBI to do their mindless tail-chasing shortly afterwards, to enveloped in his own thoughts to pretend he did not know the answer they all sought. His silence astounded him, his decency demanded of him why it was that he did not speak the truth, and it screamed sanity in all of this mess, and still, all Will could do was bury his head in the sand, and pretend that he did not see. Or, at least come closest to it, as he hid his head under his arms at his kitchen table, a curious Winston occasionally rubbing again him trying to attract his attention.

"Wants me to see, huh?" Will asked aloud, although no one would be able to answer. It did not matter - he could procure his own answer easily enough to the question. Letting out a frustrated, conflicted groan he met Winston's eyes, and told him: "There's only one way do to that..." He felt his chest contract and he felt as though he were both suffocating and freed as the words left his mouth. "And the sickest part is that..." he forced himself to say the words aloud as though that made them more real, forced him to actually acknowledge the words instead of just fleeting thoughts in a constantly thinking mind, "is that I want to." His breath rushed from him, and he wanted to scream, to hit something, to escape, to sit in silence, to fish, do anything but be here, and yet, his mind focused on the thought, and a sudden coldness washed over his flesh despite him being so warm.

_._

Hannibal looked up from his drawing as he heard a knock on his door, tentative at first, and then authoritative in nature. He glanced at his watch before he gently set the pencil down, walking curiously to meet the door. Who would be knocking at 2:18? Even as the inquiry crossed his mind, a smirk drew his lips up as he found his mind. He pulled the door open, and greeted: "Good morning, Will." Will simply nodded in response before walking into the room, without saying anything, before he sat precariously on Hannibal's desk. Hannibal watched the movement with a focused gaze before he closed the door, and commented offhandedly: "I did not expect to see you again so soon."

His stare, which had been fixated on onyx, turned to look at him. "I had thought the same." A pause. "Jack Crawford thinks he found the Chesapeake Ripper."

"Is that right? Why do you choose the word 'thinks'? Do you not share the belief?" Hannibal queried, trying to keep his temper at bay that someone else was being given credit for his work. They said plagiarism is the highest form of flattery, but Hannibal found it slightly insulting. That was his work.

"No. I know who the Chesapeake Ripper is," Will responded lightly, before he sighed. He seemed to being doing a lot of that recently.

"I am sure many would be delighted to hear it." Hannibal said lightly.

"But not you," Will's voice hardened as he spoke, and his eyebrows narrowed as he looked at Hannibal, the man's eyes directly meeting his own.

Hannibal smiled, "Not particularly I, no." A pause. "Are you going to tell Jack?" The other looked hollow but determined as he shook his head in negation to the question. "Might I ask why?" Hannibal pressed, walking toward Will, each step exuding dominance and power, control and assertion as he approached.

Will's eyes widened slightly, and he licked his lips before responding quietly, "You know why."

Hannibal was now close enough to the edge of the desk that he could feel Will's breath on his collar, as he looked up at him with a great deal of concern on his face from his perch on the edge of the desk. Hannibal pushed his knee against the wood, leaning forward against the desk, between Will's legs. He touched the others face delicately, and his eyes flickered between the other's two. The colours of a forest stared back at him, woodsy greens and deep browns that threatened to take you in and allow you to lose yourself. Hannibal forced his chin up, and this time, lips met lips, fierce and controlling, pressing against his. A hand found it's way around Will's neck and Will smiled up him, a demented smirk as though this was a cruelly exciting game. He bit Hannibal's lip lightly, and Hannibal withdrew.

"I see," He said in the silence of slightly laboured breathing.

Hannibal chuckled lightly, and shook his head, "No, you do not. But you shall. Of that..." Hannibal swiped the blood beading at the edge of his lip away with his tongue, "I will make certain."


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: This chapter contains some more violence...and violent sex. I imagined that if Hannibal in Will were to sleep together, half of it would be rough and violent and bloody, and the other half would be tender and gentle and caring. I don't know. Anyways, enjoy._

Hannibal found himself considering both WIll and Crawford as it seemed as though he were baiting both of them, each in so very different ways. Hannibal had earned a stern look and a smothered smirk from the former when Hannibal has asked him if her humiliation had worked. Will was adjusting, slowly, but surely, and it was enthralling to Hannibal to watch Will Graham see, and to watch hunger grow within the man's features, dark, cruel, and amused.

Will Graham was beginning to fully understand and that was beautiful. The man was beautiful, especially after he tumbled into Hannibal's office, covered in blood, splattering his features and so lovely a contrast against his pale flesh, his hands cut and bleeding, a small incision on his neck, his fallen angel up and down approaching him as he said, in a hoarse voice: "I just killed two men. Shot a third...he'll be here soon, I suspect."

"Why?" Hannibal asked, again pressing his body against Will's, licking the blood from the wound on the other's neck. It tasted coppery and sweet. He considered briefly cleaning Will of all his crimes, but he simply wanted to taste Will in this moment, and no one, and nothing else.

"We went to Tobias, like you and I discussed. He said your name, holding this...metal spike, and I..." Will trailed off, giving Hannibal a sharp knowing look, "You sent me there, knowing he would attack us." The words slipped from his lips lightly, confidently meeting Hannibal's gaze.

"Yes," Hannibal responded simply.

"You had sent me there, wanting to me to kill him," Will continued, his hands moving to ghost across the wound on his neck, and Hannibal watched the movement, fascinated, and licked his lips, still tasting the residue of blood.

"Instead you murdered two officers, and brutally, I would assume by the state of you." Hannibal's lips quirked upward with dark amusement and arousal, reaching toward Will's face.

"He will be here soon," Will repeated. "Jack too." Hannibal let out a growl of frustration and withdrew,

"Go to the side room and clean up. Reenter the office _after_ Jack arrives as though you were not here before. Regardless of what happens, do not enter until after Jack arrives." Hannibal looked around his office, thinking: "And tell Franklyn to come in."

Will nodded mutely and began to do as he was told, and within the forest of his eyes, Hannibal could see a black fire rage within, consuming, controlling, and powerful.

_._

The warm water was a shock against Will's skin; he hadn't realized he was that cold. The cuts burned and felt weary, yet within him welled a great deal of exhilaration. In the back of his mind, he could hear the echo of Hannibal's first words to him: "Does it really feel so bad, because it felt so good?" Will closed his eyes, and leaned forward against the wall of the shower, realizing that this was sickness that found itself embedded within himself. Still, he couldn't help the thrill that ran through his veins, and the desire he felt.

Again, his hand found the cut on his neck, and he traced it, arching his neck to the side to bear it to his own fingers, and images flashed through his mind of himself stepping through the door and seeing Tobias holding that thin, sleek, sharp piece of metal, the name 'Hannibal' on his lips, and Will approached him, and wrestled it out of his grasp, before using it to impale the nearest officer who had merely been attempting to help. He fell limply, like a broken doll, a marionette with cut strings, and the other one fled with Tobias to the basement. Will had stalked both of them down the steps with slow, careful steps, revelling in the power that he felt. The other officer had hid in waiting, and attempted to jump him, using surprise as a tactic before Will thrust him forward onto sharp, cutting strings and watched as the blood blended with the solution, the red polluting it's clarity.

Tobias stepped forward, words on the edge of his lips, as he tried to use those same threads to try and take his life from him, and silver cut into skin, and Will turned, and shot him, just missing his head, and instead got his ear. The man grunted in pain, before fleeing from Will, leaving him breathing heavily and covered in blood, looking around at the mess he made with a detached sort of feeling. _This_, he thought, _is **my** design. _

Pulling himself back to reality, hand running through his wet hair, he knew that this was wrong. Some part of him, of his 'decency' as Hannibal had phrased it, screamed and fought. It's an empathy disorder - he could emphasize with anyone. Will opened his eyes slowly, and a calculating voice asked: _Now that's not entirely true, is it?_ A smile found it's way onto his expression, and he turned the water off.

Screams immediately replaced it's absence, and he immediately made a movement for the door, arm reaching for the knob, before he caught himself. The scream had not been Hannibal's, and there was a distinct and profound lack of sirens attempting to deafen him. Jack was not here yet. Conflicted, Will heard a thud as he proceeded to dry his hair, and nervousness and tension forced Will's body into rigidity as he became more and more wound and strung, fighting the temptation to run back into the office to make sure everything was okay. He was waiting, listening, as he found a pair of jeans approximately his size, and a shirt and pulled the articles of clothing onto his body, seeking warmth. It was only after he had done that did he hear the sirens, and then the quick and heavy thundering footsteps of what seemed to be a thousand men, an army, stepping into the office of Dr. Hannibal Lecter. He counted the seconds, the minutes, until finally, he flung himself out of the door, following behind the men into Hannibal's office. He was looking for him...Hannibal, who met his eyes with a look of tenderness that almost made Will freeze in his steps. "I was afraid you were dead," the man said, smiling, reading Will's expression, and mocking him lightly.

Will approached him, sitting against the desk yet again, only this time he was above Hannibal as he said: "I pulled you into my world." Somewhere in there an apology was buried within the words, not audible, but present nonetheless.

"I got here on my own," Hannibal corrected, a smirk in response, as he looked to Tobias, and back to Will: "But I appreciate the company."

After the FBI finished their foolish flocking around the scene, eating lies that Hannibal and Will fed them, each managing to look equally shaken up, but their eyes, if anyone cared to look within, displayed their thrill, Their excitement, Hannibal more at ease with it than Will, but mutually shared nonetheless, Hannibal and Will were alone. The silence was deafening as it extended, and yet it was comfortable, stretching onward for an odd expanse of time. Hannibal was standing now, his wounds tended to, and used to pain, easily ignored, however, Will was still perched on the edge of the desk. It was an immobile, frozen sort of silence, until Hannibal's maroon eyes flicked over to Will, and he began to advance, his pace and posture threatening and predatory as he grabbed Will by the throat and forced the man who stared back at his impassive expression with a smirk of his own flat onto the top of his desk. "Rather forceful, aren't you, Dr. Lector?" Will asked, but instead of answering, Hannibal just pressed his lips against Will's and Will could taste the blood from his cut lip, and unable to stop himself, he bit it.

Hannibal pressed his body against his, the weight pushing him further down while he tore open the top of the shirt Will was wearing - his shirt, and bore the man's chest to himself, to his mouth and Hannibal kissed it gently, before grabbing the nearby letter opener, and softly drew the edge of it against Will's skin, just enough to draw blood, before he lapped up the blood, their blood intermingling while Will shivered, and said, almost with a horrified fascination: "You scarred me." It was clear to both of them that he was not just talking about the cut he now had. "Together, we are monsters."

"I told you," Hannibal said, further unbuttoning his shirt, "God forbid we become friendly."

"Friendly?" Will repeated, pulling himself up, his eyes glancing briefly at the blood that was beginning to trickle down his chest. He grabbed Hannibal's tie, and forced the taller man to his lips, and this time, he could taste the undercurrent biting sweetness of wine. It was intoxicating.

Hannibal pulled back, and immediately stripped himself of his jacket, throwing it haphazardly to the floor beside him, and Will began to help him with his tie. Just as Will had finished, and was about to throw it to the side, Hannibal firmly caught his hand, and pulled the tie out from his fingers, gingerly and yet roughly. Will opened his mouth to question it, but Hannibal met his lips, and stole from it the words that were about to be said, while one hand entangled itself into Will's mess of hair, and the other worked on the buttons. Hannibal broke the kiss and practically ripped the shirt from Will's body, and again, Hannibal found himself marvelling at the man. "You're beautiful."

"That's not something a man usually likes to hear," Will responded, pulling Hannibal's shirt from his shoulder's, briefly surprised by just how _lean_ and athletic the man was, all sinewy muscle and tightly controlled power as it radiated from his sharp body. Hannibal lightly pushed on the centre of Will's chest, again forcing him to lay down as Hannibal unbuttoned the man's jeans, before pausing, and again bit Will, and sharply sucked, leaving a rather interesting mark of purple and red against the white. Hannibal discarded the other's pants, somewhere, he didn't care where, just throwing them aside, before unbuttoning his own jeans. Hannibal wrapped the tie around Will's neck, pulling him forward this time, and up and then down onto the floor.

Will looked up at Hannibal's eyes, watching him with an almost detached expression, except it was heated, passionate, and sadistic, "Suck," He said simply.

Will was slightly caught off guard, but then a smirk crossed his features, and he complied, pulling the other's member from his boxers, and, opened his mouth, sucking and lapping, surprised by the sheer length and the taste of it. He felt as though he was playing a game, unfamiliar, and yet, he revelled in the way it felt, the fluctuation of power and control, and he and Hannibal both knew that if he just closed his jaw...well. He met Hannibal's eyes as the man looked down at him, working his jaw, and hands, as Hannibal was far too long for either alone. Will's jaw was starting to get sore when he pulled away, letting the cock slip from his wet lips, before he turned to Hannibal's thigh and bit - hard enough to draw blood.

Hannibal grabbed him by the hair and forced him back, and sudden movement and pain making Will utter a soft groan in pain as Hannibal's hand ghosted down his cheek, jawbone, and neck, before grabbing the tie, and using it to guide Will onto his stomach pressed against the desk, lips crashing down again, hot breath and the taste of salt between them. Will licked the wound on Hannibal's mouth, before pulling away and this more, more lightly, biting his shoulder. It was as though they both were playing with fire, and the idea of getting burned...well, was exhilarating. Hannibal's fingers found their way down, trailing across the edge of Will's body, before entering him, drawing a strained breath from the man. Hannibal kissed him, taking the sounds of pain and discomfort within himself, and trying to ease it. The lubrication was cold, a shock that made Will shiver and glare, a hand pulling on Hannibal's hair hard enough to make the man to growl. "I'm going to fuck you so hard," Hannibal whispered into Will's ear, his voice hoarse, and the vulgarity from such polite lips was more arousing still. And true to his word, Hannibal pressed himself inside of Will, drawing a hissed breath of pain, and a pause before he began to move - the movement's violent and hard, and wonderful.

Will could feel Hannibal's blood as the man's thigh rubbed against his own, smearing in their movements, Hannibal using the desk as support, and his hand on Will's own cock, while Will buried his face into his arms his hand griping the edge of the desk, it was sadistic and masochistic on both of their each thrust forward, Hannibal could feel the throbbing of both wounds on his thighs, and somewhere along the lines, Will had added one to his neck, and reopened, yet again, the one on his lip. Every time Hannibal buried himself within him, he was pushed forward, his hip lightly hitting the edge of the desk, and his body throbbed. When Hannibal came, he bit Will's shoulder blade, groaning his name against the skin before he forced Will to turn over and kiss him, and watched his expression as he came, digging his nails into Hannibal's back, deeper than just a scratch, deep enough to scar. They found themselves covered in blood, sweat, and cum as the hungry beasts were sated. "Monsters," Will repeated, watching the blood trickle from Hannibal's mouth.

"God forbid we become lovers," Hannibal responded, before pulling Will by his arm off the table and in the direction of the shower.

_A/N 2: Also, I did not think Will would be the type to be super blushing and shy, so yeah. None of that. He's broken, not a pre-teen virginal girl. (Again, sorry)_


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: I wrote this before I saw tonight's episode, and I decided not to change it - so, um, yeah. Gideon is dead. Also...the newest chapter was pretty much like watching beautiful pornography. It was a work of art. If you haven't seen it yet, all I have to say is: wow. Just wow. Anyways. Thank you for all the lovely reviews, they have been very encouraging! Enjoy. (More sex and a small amount of violence)_

Will groaned, refusing to open his eyes even as he could feel light steaming into the room on his closed lids. He stretched and two things occurred to him simultaneous: first, this was not his bed. As his skin met smooth satin sheets, he found himself in a silken form of comfort that was sort of hindered by the second thing he realized - his body _ached_. With just a simple stretch, he felt as though he'd pulled a thousand sore muscles, and he could feel bruises and protesting, healing cuts as they demanded he just lie still; which he would have been perfectly content to do, except he was overwhelmed with a great deal of confusion. His eyes blinked open, assaulted by, as far as he was concerned, far too much light, as he looked blearily around the room. He looked at the bed he was in...red satin. Who had red satin sheets? His hand reached, and he remembered...Hannibal. Of course, Hannibal. A smile found it's way onto his face, and he inspected the room around him, simply, yet artistically decorated, refined in every single way, be it the small vase beside him, or the intricate drawing hung on the wall. He rolled over, ignoring as the cut on his neck reopened, and touched...nothing. Where was Hannibal?

The thought struck him, and immediately, he sat up, ready to climb out of bed in a hunt for the other man, until his breath escaped him, and he bit his lip in pain. Apparently, this might take a bit more effort than he had initially intended. Hannibal's bedroom door creaked open - the one that led to the hallway, not the shower, and the man himself leaned against the frame, staring at him with a devilish smile. "I see you have finally awoken," He said, his eyes travelling from Will's face, and down his naked chest, resting on the cut that resided there, before wandering back up.

Will noticed that Hannibal was dressed far less formally than usual, wearing simply dress pants and a partially unbuttoned dress shirt with the sleeves pulled up. One of Hannibal's own bite marks was visible - not as noticeable as Will's, as Hannibal was tanner, but evident enough on his neck for Will to see it. "I see that you have been awake for quite a while," Will sighed, but smiling still nonetheless.

"Indeed," Hannibal stepped into the room, and climbed onto the bed, pushing Will back down watching as the other's head fell into the pillow, startled. Hannibal's body cradled and trapped Will beneath him, as his lips pressed against his, both gentle and vicious, a hand sprawled across Will's chest, keeping him pinned if he tried to get up. He did not, and instead met the kiss with equal tenacity, before Hannibal broke the kiss, and then licked his lips before saying: "I made you breakfast."

Will groaned at the idea of getting up: "I think you're underestimating what you did to me."

Hannibal chuckled lightly, "I will bring it to you if you like, but I always suspected you had a high pain tolerance."

Will glared, throwing the cover off of his body and standing up, wincing, and wrapping one of his hands around Hannibal's neck, "A suspiciously high pain tolerance. And a ridiculously low baiting tolerance," He replied licking his lips.

"Ah," Hannibal breathed, "Now, Will, I thought we were past lying to yourself." He took a step forward, pushing Will's hand closer to his neck, and his body against Will's nakedness as he took his index finger, and traced his jugular upward before brushing against his cheek.

Will laughed and shook his head, before looking to Hannibal's dresser curiously, "Got anything to make myself more decent?"

"You are far from decent," Hannibal replied, but nodded and gestured and invitation for Will to help himself anyways.

Will looked him up and down briefly, but ignored the comment except for a light smile, as he opened the drawer, and suddenly a thought occurred to him. "Those clothes in the restroom were my size."

"Yes," Hannibal replied simply.

Will shook his head, laughing again, "We aren't the same size...You anticipated that. You anticipated all of it..."

Hannibal was content that he was taking it with a great deal of amusement, before he pulled open a different drawer than the one Will had opened. "I had hoped. These are all about your size."

"Prepared..." Will commented, looking down at all of the clothing suspiciously.

"Hopeful," Hannibal amended a second time. "Now get dressed. Otherwise...well, I would hate to make you cry."

"I would have to kill you," Will replied offhandedly, before he froze at his own words. _This is disgusting_, a voice whispered. _The two of you are murders_... A cold cruelty coiled within him, drawing a wicked smirk to his lips as he glanced at Hannibal. "Literally."

"That would be rather unfortunate. Although, I question if it would be worth it," a sadistic look, and Hannibal exuded something intangible and threatening, and Will shivered. "I'll meet you downstairs," He said, walking out of the door and to the kitchen.

Will followed shortly after, looking at the plate of food that was clearly meant for him, a question on his lips before he swallowed it, and instead just picked up his fork, and meeting Hannibal's eyes, ate the sausage and eggs, reminiscing about the last time that he had eaten breakfast with Hannibal. He tried not to laugh as he said aloud, quietly, "I don't find you that interesting."

Hannibal, who had been pouring a cup of coffee with his back to Will, turned around, and met Will's eyes, before saying, with care, "You will."

"I do," Will said, drinking his own coffee, and laughing lightly. He took another sip, before starting to cough, laughing harder yet, "Out of curiosity, how ethical is it to sleep with a patient?"

"Not particularly," Hannibal responded seriously, but Will could see the amusement in his features despite his grave voice. "Not that ethics are a primary concern."

"No, I would assume not," Will chuckled, "especially not when..." his eyes glanced down to his plate, and his words got caught in his throat.

"Say it," Hannibal commanded, his voice low and stern, but this time the amusement was gone, and instead was just the simple demand.

"Not when..."

"Say it."

"When your cannibalistic and a murderer," Will said.

Hannibal had drawn closer, merely inches away as he met Will's eyes. He grabbed Will's collar, and pulled him to meet his lips, plunging his tongue into his mouth, the kiss primal, passionate and violent, almost suffocating before Hannibal broke it, but still hovered close to Will's face, and asked: "How does it taste?"

Will's lips turned upward in a cruel sort of smile, as he responded, "Marvellous." He kissed Hannibal, meeting him with the same amount of dominance and control, and Hannibal wove his finger's into Will's hair, trapping him, and Will merely did the same in a different place, his hand pushing against the back of Hannibal's neck.

"We are more alike than you ever would have realized," Hannibal suggested softly. "Now finish your breakfast. And afterword, how you do you feel about a shower?"

_._

Hannibal looked up from his desk, with narrowed eyebrows at the door, confused and irritated. Will was in the other room, so he already knew that whoever was at the door, well, quite frankly, he did not care. He debated whether or not to answer the door, before he decided it would be rude to ignore someone that had come to his door to see him. Sighing, he set down his pencil, and stood up, all languid and fluid movements, before he walked to the door and opened it, to reveal a rather harassed-looking and infuriated looking Crawford. Without even a hello, he walked in, and asked: "Have you seen Will? He didn't go home last night."

Hannibal fought back a retort questioning how, precisely, Crawford would know that and instead just offered simply: "He stayed here."

That got him a raised eyebrow, and a suspicious look, before Crawford seemed to lose something within himself, as he shouted: "What do you mean he stayed here? You did not think that was something important to mention?" 

"I felt as though what happens to Will Graham, on a personal level, was none of your business," Hannibal replied simply.

"A personal level?" Crawford repeated, his voice indignant and offended.

"You put me in charge of watching over him, Jack," Hannibal said. "Yesterday was stressful, he needed support."

"Were your actions as his psychiatrist?" Crawford demanded, his voice venomous.

"They were as his friend," Hannibal replied. And his lover.

Crawford shook his head, "Is he okay?"

"I think that this work is putting a great deal of strain on him," he responded, his tone blank as he said: "but he will be fine." _More than fine,_ Hannibal corrected.

"Tell him to call me when he has the opportunity..." Crawford looked both stern and concerned as he left, and Hannibal glared at the back of his head. Hannibal rarely felt contempt for another man as did for Crawford, and his disgust and affection for the human species has a whole was almost tangible. Crawford would have broken Will and that angered and scared him beyond belief, but now...well, now, Will Graham was his. The man was still fighting his own demons, of course, but Hannibal had managed to take away his ability to be an angel.

Will entered the room, dressed and with a towel draped over his shoulders - a rather ineffective solution for his wet hair as it dripped tears of water onto his face and neck, making the top of his shirt damn. He looked far less tired than he had been, those no so shadowed eyes alert as he looked around the room. "I heard Crawford's voice," the words themselves were light, but he was looking warily around the room for the large, missing man.

"He was looking for you," Hannibal laughed. "I insinuated that you were having a personal struggle to which I was providing aid." A pause, and then, "He seems worried about you."

"He isn't," came the quick, clipped and sort response.

"He is afraid of breaking his fragile little tea cup," Hannibal sighed.

Will gave him a sharp look, but then, with acquiesce of the statement, shrugged, and said: "That man is selfish in his own drives."

"Yet he wants to change to the world."

_._

Will stumbled out of the car, his body a bit fevered from the medicine Hannibal had given him, he was searching for something, but what he was not entirely certain. The snow crunched beneath his feet, thick and cold, as it bled into his jean's through the fabric. It was cold, but he couldn't feel it, instead he just climbed into the back of Gideon's car, and waited. He was not entirely certain what he was doing, only that at some point it had seemed logical, spurned onward by the mention of the 'Chesapeake Ripper,' when the man got in.

"Drive," Will commanded, holding the steel against the back of the other man's neck. He directed him to Hannibal's house, and shoved him through the door when they arrived. The drive had been long, and silent, all but for when Will issued a heated command.

Hannibal looked startled by the arrival, making way for both of their entrances watching them with curious eyes as they made progress into the dining room. "Who is he?" Will asked, he was shaking. His body shivering, and he was starting to hallucinate. Who had he brought with him? Hobbs? The officers. _My victims,_ he thought. _No_, he shook his head, _this is...this is..._

_"_No one," Hannibal said. "He took another's identity, and in the process lost his own. He isn't anyone."

"Hannibal..." Will's voice was a low moan, and Hannibal pressed a hand to Will's forehead. Hannibal pulled the gun from Will's hands, meeting only fevered resistance, weak, and barely standing. He was having a negative reaction to the medicine, and Hannibal glanced at his medicine cabinet, knowing that nothing he had there would help, and that he, quite simply had to wait, while Will stood there, shaking and delusional. "Don't lie to me."

Hannibal looked at him, his eyes widening at the comment, then glancing at Gideon, but somehow the two didn't seem related in the conversation Will was trying to have with him., right before Will grabbed his tie - it seemed to be a common assertion of control, as Will tugged him by his neck forward, and down, and Will kissed him, his warmth almost burning Hannibal as he kissed back. He bit Hannibal's tongue lightly, just enough to hurt, but not much more, before he said: "You did this to me. You are mine."

Gideon looked at the exchange between the two men, and leaned back, "Well now, isn't that against some sort of ethical code, Dr. Lecter?"

Hannibal glanced at Gideon with hungry and heated eyes, and responded, "This is just the start, Dr. Gideon. You have taken what is mine from me." He glanced at Will, "And you might harm something else of mine. I do not like sharing, Gideon, and you have much to learn." Hannibal let him leave, part of him hoping that he would, in fact, get rid of Dr. Bloom, but just as he walked out, leaving gun and keys there intentionally, he heard Will grab them and leave instead. _That's just as well, _Hannibal thought, _not the problem I had intended to get rid of, but it's all just the same._

And Will had killed Gideon, only to return to Hannibal's house, and immediately walk toward Hannibal, and draw the other man to him. Will had managed to not spill any of his sins unto himself, but still, the knowledge of Will radiating with the power to take another's life brought a predatory gaze to Hannibal's expression, even when he found himself falling back onto a semblance of acceptability, as he said: "You have a fever, Will." 

"It has calmed down a little. Something...unethical about taking advantage of the sick, Dr. Lecktor?" But even as he said that, smile on his face, Hannibal could still feel the heat radiating from the smaller man's body, and the slight tinge of pink on his cheeks.

"I just do not want you to be in a state where you might be impeded...to where you have the possibility of regretting your actions, or not being entirely responsible for them," Hannibal responded, reaching to lightly touch Will's cheek. "Although, I find myself wondering if even if you said no, that I would be able to stop."

"Worded as that was," Will responded, kissing Hannibal lightly, "you almost made it seem like you have good intentions."

Hannibal's other hand pressed against Will's chest, until the other's back slammed forcefully against the wall, "I assure you, I have only the worst intentions." His lips met Will's licking and savouring the fervour and taste of Will. He lightly grazed downward with his teeth, not biting, but the effect was still chilling and exhilarating, before he drew the skin of Will's neck into his thirsty mouth while his hands found their way to his buttons. He undid them slowly at first, he wanted to draw it out, but Will quickly made him forsake that decision when rocked his hips against Hannibal's, fingernails digging into the skin on his back yet again, new marks making him acutely more aware of the old. He forced the shirt off of Will's shoulders, partially ripping it in the process, and finding that he just did not care.

He caught sight of the cut that he had made on Will previously, and he found himself licking the old wound, not to promote any form of healing, but just delighting in the knowledge that he had left his mark on Will, imprinted himself onto his body. If he could, he would carve his whole name across the other's back, but he knew that somewhere that crossed some sort of line. Still, he wanted this man to be etched with his essence, to have his very being exude _him_. Hannibal would never let him escape, but as the other wrapped his hand's around Hannibal's throat, he thought to himself, _he would never want to_. Hannibal grinded against Will, a movement that resulted in a a loud 'crack' as Will's back again hit the wall, and the latter hissed in pain and arousal as he tightened his grasp, his other hand finding it's way to Hannibal's trousers, and unbuttoning them with ease.

Hannibal leaned forward, trapping Will against the wall, and he whispered, a voice of seductive smooth velvet, "I am going to violate you." He licked the arch of Will's neck, feeling as the man tensed beneath him.

"Fuck," Will responded simply, pushing Hannibal with a bit more strength than he intended, and then began to unbutton Hannibals vest, then shirt, but he too, got tired of it halfway through, and instead just left it, his fingernails scraping the flesh of Hannibal's neck and chest. Hannibal grabbed Will by the shoulder, and forced him to bend over the counter top, the movement quick and violent, before he pressed himself behind Will, fingers finding the opening. Again, Will shivered, still uncomfortable with the sensation of the lubricant cold within him, but that feeling was quickly replaced with heat as Hannibal began to open him, all the while biting different sections of his back, covering it in stinging red marks.

Without warning, Hannibal pushed himself inside of Will, and the latter gasped in shock and pain. It was too soon, and yet, the pain was all the more arousing, and Will moaned with every hard, angry, sadistic thrust. Hannibal began to stroke Will in time with his movements, drawing them both to something primal and angry, sexual and honest as they each moaned the other's name, their true nature on their lips. Hannibal drew blood when he came, unintentionally, as he breathed Will's name into the wound, his feet and mouth marking thoughts. Will had muffled himself, but Hannibal still heard his name said into the man's arms.

Hannibal pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned himself and his hands, before pulling Will back and up, and into a kiss, lips warm, yet soft. "I love you," Hannibal said, surprising himself with the confession. Will's eyes widened lightly, before he smirked.

"Is that right, Doctor Lecktor?" And with those five words, he headed in the direction of the shower, leaving Hannibal to smother a smile at the faint pink blush that had risen in the man's cheek, not at the fault of the fever.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: Um. Yeah. This chapter is a bit violent. Anyways, enjoy._

Red smeared the white plaster, splattering like droplets of water, but rich in the vitality as it left the body, draining the body of it's life. As he drew the blade against her throat with every ounce of his thrill, he felt as the skin gave, split, giving a small amount of resistance as it tore. Skin was flexible, and beautiful, making way for a flood of crimson wine, bleeding from the fountain within the beating heart and throbbing veins as they poured out life. He felt her body go slack in his arms, head falling forward, and he nuzzled the back of her head, feeling as the clothes he wore began to cling to his skin, drenched as it was, unwilling to free him from his sins. Not that he wanted to be freed. He let her body fall, and looked up toward the heavens, his body stained red and a smile on his face. His hands wove through his clothes, caressing his own bloody skin, enthralled by the sensation, he was so..._powerful_.

His eyes closed, revelling in the feeling, before they flickered open, looking down briefly at the empty corpse at his feet. He could still hear the echoes of her ragged breaths as she struggled to breath, but now, her eyes were black, lifeless, and flat as they stared at nothing. Her chest was still, unable to take another breath of air, unable to ever live again. She had died in his arms, believing that she was safe, and now she was nothing but a shell of a person at his feet. _This was his design_. He lightly kicked her body out of his way, leaving her behind him, insignificant as the lifeless were, and simply walked away. _Sadistic, _a voice whispered, _no clear motive._ Oh, but it was so obvious now. He wanted to tear, to rip, control, consume, feel, and take what he had every right to take. Life was precious, so how beautiful it was to watch and let it slip through his fingers like water...

_Disgusting,_ the voice continued, _what have you become_? He briefly felt conflicted, thinking about the care he had given for Abigail's life, for Alana's, for the lives of others, before the darkness stripped him of his tortured self, and responded: _What I always have been._ Nightmares still plagued Will Graham in the shadows of day, but only because his decency still clung to his mind, seething and saturated, ingrained into his thought patterns, but not in his emotions, for nothing was as cold and as lovely as death. The thrill was like a high, an arousal of the mental, sexual, and the existential. Nothing made life seem more valuable than seeing it fade from the eyes of another.

Will's phone vibrated in his pocket, and gingerly, he pulled it out, briefly glancing at the body beside him, before saying in the device: "Yes, Jack?"

"Will, we need you to come to the station in Delaware as soon as possible. Hannibal too." Jack's words came out in a rush, obviously bothered by whatever case he was working on, flustered and annoyed - no, annoying.

"Sure, sure," Will responded, "I'll be there as soon as possible. I need to clean up a little first."

"Been fishing again?" Jack queried, "It's amazing how much filth you can get on you doing that."

"Amazing," Will repeated, looking down at himself, "Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever come clean."

Crawford laughed on the other end of the phone, and made some comment about how he better try before Will hung up, and dialed Hannibal's number.

"It is unfortunate that I cannot take a picture of you," Hannibal said as Will entered his home, "because your current state is quite...enticing."

"I feel as though that would result in some complications," Will responded, a smile on his face. "Although, if I could, I would indulge you."

Hannibal chuckled lightly, "How did this one make you feel?"

"Powerful," Will responded simply. He stepped toward Hannibal, pressing himself against the taller man, fingers travelling up the front of his vest, lightly touching the skin above his collarbone, before one by one, encircling his throat, "I slit her carotid artery and watched her bleed out until she fell limp in my arms, hollow and no longer human." He paused. "I could do that to you too, you know." Will's eyes met Hannibal's maroon one's, passionate yet confident.

"You wouldn't," Hannibal responded simply.

"Why not?" Will asked.

"Because you love me," Hannibal smirked.

Will looked away briefly, and then asked: "So?" His lips met Hannibal's, fevered and intense, and dominating. Hannibal drew Will closer, and Will simply tightened his grip on Hannibal's throat, not enough to cut of oxygen, but just enough to assert _control_, as another hand weaved into Hannibal's hair and yanked lightly. Will's lips ghosted from Hannibal's smirking lips, lightly down scrapping across Hannibal's jaw bone, and to his neck, where he sucked and bit, leaving a red, bleeding mark, and then gently kissed it.

"We need to go to Delaware," Will said lightly, licking the blood that was beginning to pool.

"Is that so?" Hannibal's eyes looked down at Will's heated, his pupils dialted with arousal.

"Yes."

_._

Will's eyes met unstaring, dead orbs as he looked at a partially decomposed figure posed similarly to Christ, limbs bound to tree limbs, stained with was surely his own blood. His mouth was door open, a gaping wound to issue no words, a tongue missing to speak no more. His skin had turned ashen, and faded, and birds and bugs had begun to eat the skin, a feast for the many, as he deserved nothing more than to simply be fed to others, rather than to live. It was revolting and profoundly fascinating, and Will immediately knew that the man to his side had done this. He had wanted to ask Jack not to bother clearing the other's out, and yet, he kept his words to himself, instead closing his eyes, and imaging the pendulum ticking time away.

He could feel himself binding the barely concious man to the tree, and watching as he became awake, unintended but still manageable as he cut into the screaming man's face. He could hear the pleas and the issued shrieks of pain, as though somehow making his suffering audible would somehow save him. He had spoken rudely, undeserving of his tongue, as Hannibal had taken it from him. He walked around the corpse, before he whispered lightly to it: "No longer can you pollute the world with your filthy tongue."

Will looked to the sky for the second time in the day, staring at the faded glory of the sun as it turned into the rich colour of dusk as the colours began to blend together into a twilight hue. It made him realize the silence as it surrounded him, diffident from the sound of the birds and the sound of the breeze as it rustled the leaves of the surrounding trees. It was so silent, and yet the entire world echoed with vitality. This was death, and yet the life proceeded onward, unaffected, unaltered, the grand reality unchanged by the rotting thing that hung before him.

That was life: a progression forward, unconcerned with the smaller details. Ironic how it was the minor details that managed to allow escape from the existential. It was the power that allowed Will, and even Hannibal, to forget that human's lived for such a small period of time, and meant so little. Narcissism did not allow for nihilism, and somehow the ideas seemed conflicting within Will's mentality. A secret, living on the edge of the tongue, thought but never spoken, made this simplest things more profound. He considered that - in the end, if he had power over the lives of others, did that not make his own existence more orphic in nature? He shook his thoughts away, now was not the time to be considering philosophy, even if it was to justify his own, and Hannibal's actions. He heard Crawford approaching behind him, and he did not move, and did not turn. Listening, instead - distant, and distinct.

"It looks to be the work of the Chesapeake Ripper," Crawford said when he returned, walking toward Will's still frame.

Will turned slowly, sighing: "The Chesapeake Ripper usually takes _organs_ Jack. While the humiliation and consideration for his victim is very similar, they are also a bit different. They have the same feeling, but I question if they truly are the same killer." Regardless of how he defended it, he knew Crawford would believe him, whatever direction he led the goose chase.

"You think they are separate people?" Crawford repeated, looking ill.

"I think it is likely," Will responded.

"What do you think, Dr. Lector?" Crawford demanded, looking to the man who had been watching Will with a curiously blank expression on his face.

"I think Will comprehends more than you and I. His opinions have merit," Hannibal retorted, his words seeming to take a side, but honestly, they said nothing.

Crawford cursed lightly under his breath, before shouting orders to his team. Will watched them move with a detached sort of feeling, watching as they flocked around the body. He liked them, truly, perhaps with the exception of Crawford but somehow he felt more segmented from them than he ever had. _Well, no, that was not entirely true._ He was just more aware of the line that separated them, just how distinct and different they were. His eyes met with Hannibal's, and he asked Crawford vaguely: "Can we leave?"

He was not sure what Crawford replied, whether it was assent or dissent, either way, he was already walking toward Hannibal's car with the man shortly behind him. It was a long walk, as they had travelled through the forest by foot, but, as soon as they got there, without warning, Will grabbed Hannibal by the collar of his dress shirt, and threw him onto the hood of the vehicle. "That was revolting," Will said lightly, trapping Hannibal beneath him.

"And yet you looked onward with uncaring eyes," Hannibal responded.

"Because I felt like he was not human. Like he had not deserved to live, that his life had been without merit, although I understand that life is precious to those who hold it," he said.

"Death is a beautiful thing to those who embrace it," Hannibal countered.

Will pressed against Hannibal, his lips again meeting Hannibals as he muttered against the other's lips: "Shut up."

"You're dangerous, Will," Hannibal chuckled, biting Will's lip, and licking away the blood.

With a dark glint in his eyes, Will smirked, and asked: "And who's fault do you think that is?"


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: This chapter is, um, very little plot, to be perfectly honest. It's mostly just boring, I meant, 'sweet' sex, and violent sex, and fluff and just overall absolutely nothing but the literary equivalent of fan service with a little bit of character development. Why? Because I wanted to write another chapter, but as I had planned two different plots for this story, and by this point, was sure that I'd be able to figure out which one I preferred (Obviously I was mistaken, as I have not yet decided. One sticks close to canon as reasonably possible, while the other veers off entirely). I hope you all do not mind. (Look, I discovered a button that makes a line appear! *excited*) Sorry, enjoy..._

* * *

A flush of irritation washed over Hannibal as his eyes tried to filter out the streaming light. He was awake, and he was damn sure that he was far from desirous of the situation, as it was just barely 4 in the morning, and the dawn still barely clung to the earth. Darkness embraced him, and yet, Will had insisted that they leave the curtain partially open, leading to his struggle to adjust in the odd lighting. Still, that did not explain, why he was _awake_. His arm wrapped around the warmth next to him, and he drew it closer, only then realizing how tightly curled it had become, how tense and how strained, as the body shook and trembled in his grasp. Will was having a nightmare, something that had not happened before while he stayed the night, although Hannibal knew the man had them frequently.

"Will," Hannibal whispered, desperately attempting to wake the other man, "Will." He was a sadist, but he honestly did care for Will, and to watch those horrified eyes open and stare at him in such sheer terror was almost painful. His finger's gently stroked the fear from that face, as his fingertips lightly met his cheeks with gentle movements. "I am sorry," Hannibal said simply.

"My mind still fights me," even Will's voice quivered, and yet, his eyes were strong, determined, and weak.

Hannibal kissed him lightly, "You are who are you are. Who you have always been. You're mine, and decency is something that has long corrupted your perceptions."

"Decency is a corruption?" Will repeated, his voice sceptical, as though saying the words just to point out how injudicious it was.

"For you, it is," Hannibal agreed. "It always has been." Hannibal kissed him again, and this time Will responded, small, light, gentle kisses.

Will shook his head lightly, "This is disgusting."

"What is?" Hannibal questioned, slightly caught off guard by the pronouncement.

"Weakness," Will muttered, eyes flickering away in a brief bit of shame, before he met Hannibal's eyes again, determined and strong, contradicting his own words.

"Then take your strength back," Hannibal suggested.

Will held Hannibal's shoulder, and pushed Hannibal to his side, climbing on top of him, and kissing him with the same gentleness, a sweet, extended taste where the only thing that could be between them was a sweet taste and the overwhelming sense of affection and care. "I love you," Will confessed, saying the words for the very first time. "You're a monster, and I love you."

"It is because we are both the same," Hannibal responded, looking at Will warily, but with a tenderness that he could not explain in words. Hannibal raised his head slightly, and drew Will into another deep kiss, taking the words from him. His hands found the bottom of Will's shirt, and his fingers wove beneath it, which Will responded by only taking his shirt and raising it over his head, throwing it aside the bed. Hannibal drew a trail of kisses down the man's torso, until it became hard to crane his neck lower, and Will simply responded by kissing Hannibal's lips, hands pressed against the other's already bare chest. Will's hands travelled downward, finger's meeting a raised portion of raised skin, a bite mark that had not healed yet, and Will kissed it, before moving up to kiss Hannibal's lips yet again, as his hands gently stroked Hannibal's member.

In silence, they proceed wordlessly, kissing each other between each action as Will removed his undergarments, throwing them to join the shirt, as Hannibal's fingers found their way to the familiar spot, Will drawing kisses from the other man. Will caught the other man's wrist, and pulled his hand away, before leaning back, and taking Hannibal within him with manoeuvres that he was unfamiliar but comfortable with. He began to move, his stomach fluttering with the strain of each movement, and Hannibal watched with interested eyes, before dragging Will down slowly to meet his lips as Will continued to move. It was slow, soft, and kind, and each were silent except for the occasional sharp intake of breath and low issued moan until each whispered the other's name again their lips as they reached climax.

Will climbed off of the bed, and grabbed a new pair of clothes, feeling oddly comfortable, the sweetness still lingering on his body, the...love. He headed to the shower alone, leaving Hannibal in the bed behind him as he entered the large room, decorated in dark reds and whites that somehow managed to look tactful. The water was warm against his skin, seeming to rejuvenate the rest of him that had not yet awoken in his sleepy state. Hannibal did not join him, he never did in the mornings, choosing instead to go downstairs and begin breakfast, to be ready by the time Will arrived.

It smelled like some sort of sausage and fruit, and Will was both sickened and delighted. "Crepes?" He asked, looking at the plate that had been set on the kitchen counter for him while Hannibal brewed coffee with mussed hair, and distant eyes.

"Strawberry. They were initially a desert food, but I thought you would like something sweet," Hannibal said, extending a cup of the dark drink to Will, who gingerly accepted it, before lightly blowing on it.

"Thank you," He said lightly, and Hannibal nodded. One of the things that Will had learned from the few times that he had stayed over was that neither of them were morning people, Will not functional until after he had showered, and Hannibal not until he had drank what seemed like a litre of coffee. They ate in silence, and it was not until Will had set his plate aside, did Hannibal say: "That was the first time you had said your feelings directly."

Will looked at Hannibal a bit surprised, "I'm not fond of showing weakness," he said.

"Love is weakness?" Hannibal questioned, eyebrows raised.

"Yes."

Hannibal shook his head, "Love is strength. It takes the ability to trust someone with your feelings - to trust yourself. It takes the capacity to feel for another individual."

Will raised an eyebrow at him, before asking, "Is that how you justify loving me? That you have the capacity to have feelings for me?"

Hannibal looked down as he considered his response. "Yes. In a manner of speaking. I think I use that to justify it to myself, because I am reluctant to admit that my emotions ruled over my logic."

"Honesty hour," Will muttered sarcastically, but he was touched. "I think you are reluctant to admit that we are equals - that there is someone who you could consider on the same level."

Again, Hannibal conceded. "I suppose that was what I had initially thought. You were interesting, a toy to pass the time. I wanted you, but I did not care what state you are in. Now, I care for little more."

Will smiled lightly, "We are sentimental serial killers."

Hannibal's expression matched Will's, as he chuckled lightly, "I suppose we are."

_._

Again, Hannibal found himself awoken without the intention of being awake, frustration buried deep within, as he had gone to bed alone that night. He heard the creak of wood, and his body immediately tensed, hand wandering to his night stand to grab the switch blade he kept there, his finger's coiling around the hilt as he waited. He heard the rustle as someone crawled into his bed, and he lay in wait as the person drew closer, undistinguishable in the darkness, before hands collided with his neck, tightening fingers around the skin, and immediately Hannibal found himself struggling to breath, before he swung the knife, but the individual merely knocked it out of his hands, and then leaned forward, and kissed him, before letting go of his throat. Hannibal met the kiss with fervour, recognizing the familiar woodsy taste and smell of someone with forest eyes. "Will," he breathed out when they parted.

"I suppose," Will responded, his finger trailing Hannibal's jaw, his tone sounding like he was being forced to give up something fun. Hannibal supposed he was, as one of his hands found it's way woven into Will's head, to draw him back to Hannibal's lips, heated and savage. Hungry as they both were, feeding each other in this moment, and Hannibal laughed lightly.

"What?" Will asked, his voice hoarse.

"I am just recalling you fucking yourself on me," Hannibal whispered cruelly, in a display of rare vulgarity.

Will pressed himself further against Hannibal, biting his neck, before aggressively and in a dominating tone, said simply, "Shut up."

Hannibal drew the man up for another kiss, biting and licking, ferocious in nature, as his free hand found the abandoned blade within the blankets, and gripped the hilt yet again. He fluidly, and forcefully, flipped Will to be underneath him, pressing the blade against the other man's neck as he kissed him yet again, revelling in the taste of violence and sweetness that lay in the undercurrent of their mouths. Tenderness was forsaken for passion as Hannibal drew on Will's bottom lip, biting until he could taste the familiar coppery flavour of life as it flooded his mouth, licking it away as it tricked down Will's mouth. His teeth grazed Will's jaw and travelled down his neck until he met the knife, and he took the metal between his lips, pressing it further against the other's flesh, feeling as he arched beneath the cold brutality.

Will's lips met Hannibal's flesh just above his collarbone, tender as he sucked, and sensitive as his bit, wet with saliva and trickling blood. Hannibal drew the knife down, slowly dragging it against Will's chest, listening to the sharp intake of breath as his skin gave a slight resistance to the blade, jagged and cruel as it opened his skin. Will could feel the blood well onto his skin, a small pool vitality on his torso, and Will grabbed Hannibal's wrist, and quickly flipped the blade around, and thrust upward, enough to cut, but not enough to wound. There was a difference between inflicting pain for pleasure and cutting cruelly enough to simply harm. Hannibal jerked his wrist away, letting the knife fall from his grip off the bed, landing with an audible 'thump' as it hit his plush carpet. He did not care, for the man beneath him had all of his attention. Two lions were playing a dangerous game, bloody as they were, and connected as they became. Hannibal licked some of the blood from Will's chest, as between the two of them, they were quite wet, a distraction as he fumbled in the dark through the drawer of his bedside table, yet again looking for something, a small blue bottle, not that he could see colour in this lighting.

He coated his fingers in the substance it contained, before pushing them into Will, who tensed slightly, then gasped. "What the hell is that?"

"Illegal," Hannibal responded, biting Will's nipple lightly, licking and smiling to himself.

Will moaned, arching his back, and clawing Hannibal's neck and chest, leaving angry red lines downward. "God," and even in that pronouncement, he still seemed powerful, each of them in control, yet each victims to the other's whims, Will not knowing that his body had just accepted a form of ecstasy, and Hannibal licked it from his fingers - nothing about sex was sanitary, dirty as it was. "Hannibal..." he felt sharp teeth bite into his shoulder, and Hannibal looked up at Will, unable to see him, but looking despite that.

"Say it," Hannibal demanded of Will for the second time, but this time he wanted to hear something different from the man's mouth. He wanted to hear that man beg. "Say it."

"Fuck me," Will demanded, and despite the words, he sounded so in control so dominating, as he grabbed Hannibal's hair, and tugged, pulling his head backwards as he entered Will. Each thrust was heightened for the both of them, the thrill and sensations all the more exhilarating as they were more aware of the feelings of their bodies meeting, violent, rough, skin colliding against skin with sharp sounds, and deep animistic moans from both of them. With every new bit, cut, wound, movement they felt every moment of it. Hannibal kissed Will, before drawing back, licking saliva and blood from his lips unable to feel _enough _while he felt everything.

"You're mine," Hannibal murmured into Will's bloodied bitten neck, and Will shivered, dragging Hannibal further into him, as he responded,

"And you're mine...fuck," Will groaned.

"I'm going to ruin you," Hannibal continued, nibbling Will's ear.

"You already have," Will whispered, before he came in Hannibal's hand. Hannibal quickly followed, sucking on Will's bottom lip before pulling him into a deep kiss that seemed to last minutes after, as they lay there, panting and used, covered in the sadistic, primal natures of each other, wet with their own sins, yet flushed with the heat of it, excited and exhilarated by the notion. If there was a God, he would never forgive _this_.


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Hope you enjoyed the last chapter. Maybe? Ironically, I was still conflicted after much more thought. I have learned that the best method to determine how to do something is via coin flip. Apparently that was a faulted system, as the coin ended up indisposed. So, I just decided to blend the two ideas. Exciting. Why do you care? I suppose you don't, I just like to ramble. Anyways, enjoy. _

* * *

Crawford was again calming down from his Ripper crisis, his obsession as it fueled him and ate at him like a carnivorous beast, which was ironic, because that, for lack of better words, was what the Ripper was. The man was feeling chatty, having called both Hannibal and Will to his office for what seemed to be little more than off-handed friendly conversation as he discussed the practicality of utilizing them to create a profile to evaluate what precisely was eating away the morality of people as more and more seemed more driven to commit atrocities. Still, it was not a primary principal on his mind, his thoughts continuing to falter from a stream of rationality off course as he complimented Hannibal's tie, and then began to discuss his distaste and discomfort with them. "I always feel like they're choking me," He continued, and Will was avidly attempting to not look in Hannibal's direction as he recalled having done, and had that done to himself, and not in the manner of which Crawford spoke.

Will knew that Hannibal's and his sexuality was borderline a fetishism, pushing the limits of normalcy as it faltered between the two. Psychologically, they both understood the narcissism and need for control in the other, and the thrill as they tried to push the other out of it. Dominating as they both were, dangerous and toying, they were equals. That did little to prevent Will from staring out the window, feeling powerful just in being - Hannibal had long ago taken away his weakness, and although it faltered beneath his mentality, it still was controlled, reigned by the feeling of supremacy. That was what their narcissism was - knowing they had a secret, and that they were better. Sitting in the office of an FBI agent did nothing but stroke the ego of serial killers as they smiled and casually conversed. "And Will, I have been meaning to ask, did you get yourself a lovely girlfriend? Alana Bloom, perhaps? Your neck is covered in bruises and bite marks."

Hannibal's eyes narrowed at the mention of the female psychiatrist, again finding himself in a situation where he would not be given credit for his..._art_. Will Graham was art, and those angry red marks against that pale skin was nothing short of beautiful. Will looked startled in comparison, before an unintentional laugh bubbled from his lips, slipping from it sarcastic amusement. "Not Alana Bloom, no. We were not...compatible. No, I found myself someone more..." Will trailed off, unable to find the words for what Hannibal was.

"Worthy," Hannibal supplied, almost making it sound like a question instead of the assertion it was, as his eyes met Will's a smirk playing at the man's lips.

"I would love to meet her, if that is the case," Crawford said, laughing cheerfully. "She seems feisty by the looks of you."

Will tried not to laugh as Hannibal's face went suspiciously blank, disenchanted and carefully stoic. His eyes fel upon the mark on Hannibal's own neck, just barely covered up by the collar of his shirt, but still obvious if you looked hard enough. It was amusing that the answer was in front of Crawford, right in front of his eyes, and not seeing it. It seemed to be the contingency of the FBI - be oblivious to all. Hannibal had already recognized it, and made a game of it, puns about food always on the tip of his tongue..._feisty_ as he was.

"Jack, why did you actually want to talk to us?" Hannibal asked, cutting into the light air in the room, and the tension immediately became tangible as Crawford's smile slipped and faded into a stern expression, as he looked between the two, grave.

"We found Nick Boyle's body, and I think Abigail Hobbs is the one that put it there." Will opened his mouth to protest, but Crawford interrupted, cutting off his words, "He was _gutted_, Will."

"There are a ton of people who have the capacity to do that!" Will shouted, "I can gut something, it's not hard Jack!"

Hannibal's eyes flickered to Will's heated expression, wary and concerned. He wanted nothing more than th shut that mouth before Will dug himself deeper. The last thing they needed was insuitating that Will had the ability to kill, much less in such a bloody manner. As far as Crawford knew, Will had only ever shot people which was far less personal and brutal as taking a knife against flesh, and tearing life from it. Hannibal cut into the conversation before Will could say anything else...(he tried to avoid using the word 'stupid,' even if it was just within his own thoughts)...misguided, was a better word. "It is likely," Hannibal suggested, "but you would have to conduct an interview with Abigail, not us."

Will glared at him, and he tactfully ignored it. "Will feels certain familiar obligations... We both do." He looked at Will sternly, while the other man looked away, angry, and Hannibal grabbed his arm, firmly enough to assert control, and looked ready to rip his arm away...but did not. "We are leaving."

"Fuck!" Will cursed, his hands colliding sharply with the dashboard of Hannibal's car. The sound rang in his ears, and his palms hurt from the impact, but that did not stop him from doing it a second, and a third, continuing until Hannibal caught his wrist, and pulled Will closer, facing him.

"Will, I want you to consider the possibility that she did, in fact, kill Nick Boyle," Hannibal said calmly, looking at the undercurrent of rage and fear as it battled behind his eyes.

"I can't...I can't let her go, Hannibal. She's the last bit of innocence I have," He admitted.

"You are no longer mourning the loss of your decency, but you do understand it. You want her to maintain it when you have realized the joys of no longer possessing it," Hannibal said. "Why hold her to a fault that you do not hold yourself to?"

Will shook his head, "I don't...I can't..." he trailed off, shrugging at a loss for words, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

"I know," Hannibal said, lightly stroking the other's cheek, and kissing him quickly, before turning the key off, and began to drive home, his fingers now woven with Will's, an unmentioned admittance of affection as they drove in silence. Will was peering at the passing images, lost, while Hannibal drove forward, shackled by his own rage. Abigail had betrayed him, and as he looked at Will, he realized Will as well, intentions be damned. Still, it just meant she was the same as them...could he accept it?

_._

Hannibal's door slammed open, and a voice shouted: "Hannibal!" Hannibal looked up startled, partially through drawing an image of soft curves and kind features before his eyes fell on a very enraged, irritated looking Will. He looked fragile in that moment as he cursed under his breath and approached, "I saw it. She did it...Abigail Hobbs killed Nick Boyle."

"I know," He admitted, his voice stern in order to try and root Will to the moment, but it wasn't working as the man turned into a sputtering mess.

"You know. And how do you know?"

"I helped her hide the body," He answered, before meeting Will's eyes, and reminding him, "Like I have helped you do."

"Not well enough, apparently," He spat the words out like bitter venom. Hannibal approached him and pulled the other man into an embrace. Hannibal knew that the man was far from a fragile tea cup, he was volatile, and violent, a sadist, a logical and beautiful creature that succumbed to intense emotions such as this. The conversation continued, and with each pressing word, Hannibal tried to get the man to calm down - to _see _once again.

"We are her fathers now, we have to keep her secret. To protect her," Hannibal said gently. Will nodded at him, empty, and hollow, before he peered out the window. Rain was falling, and it screamed of unspeakable sorrow and loss. It was amazing how he felt, so conflicted and confused before Hannibal grabbed the back of his neck, and pulled him back so they were facing each other. Hannibal's lips met his, and he could taste the coffee the other had used to drown weariness, and it blended oddly with he taste of wine on his own tongue. Familiar, odd, and yet lovely. "Stop thinking," Hannibal said.

"I feel like everything is changing. Like I am loosing control," Will muttered.

"Then take it back," Hannibal responded, loosening his tie, and undoing the first few buttons as Will watched, dispassionate and distant, before he grabbed Hannibal's tie, and used it to pull the other to his knees, to peer up at him with calculating maroon eyes. Will's hands met Hannibal's jaw, prying it open, before quoting in the same brutal, distant tone, "Suck." Hannibal unbuttoned Will's jeans and proceeded to do just that, mouth and tongue working to take from Will more than just a release of a sexual nature, but freedom. Hannibal felt the sudden tension, and then Will came in his mouth, Hannibal licking it away from his lips simply, before cleaning his hands off with his handkerchief. Will just fell to his own knees in front of Hannibal, both simply staring at each other wordlessly, unable to find what to say. Hannibal pulled off his jacket, and threw it to the side, pushing Will to the ground beneath him.

"I need you to understand," Hannibal said, licking Will's lips.

"I need myself too. I've built forts, and it takes more than a few weeks to break them down, Hannibal," Will retorted.

"Will, do you trust me?" Hannibal asked, seeming to ignore Will's remark.

"Of course," came his simple reply - and he meant it, full heartedly, as he stared at the face just a few inches away from his as he lay on the floor.

"Then I want you to do exactly as I say," Hannibal responded.

"I am not a dog, Hannibal," Will snapped.

"No, you are magnificent, strong and powerful, a beautiful creature beyond the scope of understanding," Hannibal chuckled, but his words were honest.

"I told you, men don't like to be called beautiful," Will sighed.

"You should come to like it, because I will say it a thousand more times until it ceases to be true. Which, I doubt to be a point within this lifetime." Hannibal licked the marks on Will's neck, before the word _fiesty _climbed back into his mind. He would _kill _Jack Crawford.

As Hannibal's mind veered off to think about all that Crawford had done to deserve a near demise, he almost missed Will's whisper: "What do you want me to do?"

"You should come to like it, because I will say it a thousand more times until it ceases to be true. Which, I doubt to be a point within this lifetime." Hannibal licked the marks on Will's neck, before the word fiesty climbed back into his mind. He would kill Jack Crawford. Hannibal smiled lightly to himself, before kissing those lips, and thinking about what an interesting game they were about to play. He would save Will Graham, but he could only hope that the man managed to remain in one piece by the time that they were through.

He had confidence that Will would return to him.

The only question was whether or not it would be willingly.


	11. Chapter 11 - Pt 1

_A/N: Sorry, sorry. I was doing so well with the whole 1 chapter a day thing - I was pretty proud of myself. But then I left my laptop in my professor's office. Oops. I just got it back. I decided to upload the first part of chapter 11 in hopes of remedying the situation. It is not the whole chapter, I am sorry, the rest will be uploaded tomorrow. This is the half of the chapter without the plot, and mostly is just sex, and a little bit of some explanation. The second part has more plot, I promise. (I'm not sure if half of you are reading this for the plot, though. Maybe you just like dangerous sadomasochistic sex between two sadists. Or the Hannigram concept as a whole. I don't actually know.) (I am sorry, I ramble a LOT) Um. Right. So. Enjoy._

* * *

Will supposed he should have seen it coming; he would have died to protect Abigail - she wasn't like Hannibal and himself, beasts wearing, as Hannibal's psychiatrist had evidently phrased it 'a well crafted person suit' of 'meticulous construction.' Each of them bore new scars as though the other had tried to dig within and pull out the truth of the other out, to bear to the eyes the darkness that lurked inside. Once again, Will briefly considered fetishism as a concept, his hand travelling along the light white lines on his chest, marvelling at the way they threaded along his body, a display of Hannibal's assertion of dominance. Hannibal had a few of his own, Will's favourite being a bite scar on the other's chest. It was enticing - the blood, the power, the pain, in the eyes of the others it was violent and sadistic, yet between the two of them it was a game of lovers. How odd that Hannibal had stripped him of most of his reservations and most of his forts. He had done a fair bit of what Hannibal had asked, acting confused and afraid as he left the woman whose face had been cut into a glasgow smile, or even pretending to hear an animal as Hannibal had called Alana to come check on him, and he had kissed her. It had felt..._weird_ for lack of a better term, and although Hannibal had known about it, intended for it to happen, Will felt obligated to tell the other. "...She's very kissable," he concluded. "Nevertheless, it made me feel sick."

Hannibal smiled, "I know all of this, but I fail to understand why you drove hours in the snow to tell me about it." A pause. "Do you, perhaps, feel guilty?"

Will met Hannibal's eyes, "Nothing about us to feel guilty about," he responded simply, looking away, and down at the food he did not have feel he had the capacity to fully appreciate, intricate and decorated to the point where it no longer resembled something edible. Will was not a particularly picky eater, so he easily ate anything that Hannibal served him, and had yet to be disappointed by it. Even mushrooms, the sole food Will disliked purely for it's texture that seemed to resemble soggy leather, became edible and delicious. Hannibal smirked at Will's response, pulling his gaze back to his own, before kissing him lightly on the lips.

That night it had rained again, the snow, water, and hail blending until it was practically biting flesh, which resulted in Will staying the night - something that Hannibal had intended him to do anyways. It had not been long after dinner that Will had gone to bed, and not long after that he awoke, bleary eyed, but awake nonetheless. "Hannibal," He said, adressing the darkness within the room.

"Yes?" Came the muffled, but far from sleepy response.

"This is the second time you've drugged me," he commented, his voice lacking in emotional weight, whether positive or negative. It was just a statement.

"Are you opposed?" Hannibal asked, and Will felt him begin to shift beside him.

"I am high on ecstasy," Will responded. "There is very little I am opposed to."

"Good," came Hannibal's simple reply as he shifted again, this time cradling Will's body from above him. His lips met Will's, taking from it whatever of Bloom lingered there, stealing from him any trace of thought Will might have for anyone but him. It seemed odd, how something that he himself had asked had resulted in such a great deal of jealousy. It was not as though he was unaware that Hannibal had bound Will to him, in more ways than one, it was just that something primal and emotional within him found it hard to bear. Will Graham was his, regardless of intentions. Hannibal kissed him, a long drawn out passionate kiss as he took in the taste of Will, the taste of coffee and toothpaste, and the definitive taste of just...Will. He lightly bit the other's lip, before his hands found their way to the silken cloth of the tie he had been wearing, as he shoved it into the other man's mouth, allowing for no sounds but muffled protests that died away quickly, and Will licked his lips, with difficulty, and stared at Hannibal with heat as Hannibal also bound the other's hands above his head, and tied them to the bedposts, this time with a rope. Hannibal had considered using a nylon rope instead, but he wanted it to cut into Will's wrists.

Hannibal's hands ran down Will's bare chest, meeting with th band of his boxers as he gently seperated it from the pale skin, revealing Will's manhood, which he proceeded to stroke, while his other fingers plunged into Will, drawing a gasp for the man from behind the gag he currently wore. "I would apologize," Hannibal said, each word in time with a sharp thrust of his fingers in sync with his hand on Will's cock, "but I would not mean it. And, I am sure you will get revenge soon enough. So..." he withdrew his lubricated fingers, replacing at the entrance his own cock as he said, "just enjoy it." He plunged in, resulting in other desperate gasp as Will found against his restraints, which only lead to pain and more stimulating noises as Hannibal thrust himself into Will, each movement hard, the sound of slapping skin as Hannibal's lips travelled down bare skin, biting and licking and kissing. The more Will fought his restraints, the more pain he was in, the more exhilarating it was, Hannibal's hand moving in time with his own vicious violent thrusts. Will came first, and Hannibal licked the salty bitter taste from his fingers, before dragging his hand down Will's abdomen, decorating white with white before he himself reached climax, murmuring Will's name as his bit his shoulder, sharp and hard, feeling the trickling of blood. He continued biting Will, marking the other man's flesh with the essence of him. He wanted to tear into Will's flesh, and leave a mark that would never fade, deeper and darker than any of these scars that the man wore, more brilliant that the bruises and bright angry red lines.

"Fuck," Hannibal muttered, feeling another erection entice him toward Will's body. He wrapped a hand around Will's neck, keeping the man against the headboard, as his lips met the tip of Will's cock, while the man tried to kick him. Catching his leg, he forced it down, and continued to suck, watching as the man writhed beneath him, muffled words behind fabric unintelligible, but unimportant as Will's body reacted, and Hannibal chuckled lightly, letting Will fall from his mouth, and wiping his mouth with his wrist, before again jerking the man off, feeling as his own arousal became more and more distracting and painful. He could wait, and would wait, until he brought Will again off again, using lips and fingers and skilled movements as he pulled and tugged and licked. This time, he took Will's cum, and took it entirely into his mouth, before he shoved his fingers into Will's mouth, which had become wet with the inability to swallow, yet the gag was absorbing most of it. It was sort of beautiful, because Will almost didn't seem human - he was more perfect than that.

Hannibal jerked his hips, and entered Will yet again, slow at first, each movement agonizing and tender, before he began to move with effort, each pump into Will's body, he was practically slamming himself against the other, skin meeting skin, leaving angry red welts on the buttocks of the other man. He was fucking Will deeper and deeper into the bed, and when Hannibal came again, reaching up to touch Will's face, he realized that the reason why the other man had, at one point ceased fighting, was that he had lost conciousness. Briefly, Hannibal considered lowering the dosage next time, but decided against it, cleaning himself, and cutting a small 'H' on Will's hip deep enough that it would surely scar. He licked the blood away, and untied his hands from the bedposts, and instead tied them to a lower post in order to avoid cutting off circulation, and then he went to sleep, cradling that body that he had dirtied, loving every inch of it.

_._

Will's eyes flickered opened, weariness ebbing and giving way to sheer exhaustion, his muscles sore, and strained. He flexed his arms, his legs, and then began to stretch, before his hand seemed to catch. Alarm washed through him as he began to panic, fighting and struggling against something he could not quite understand in his sleepy state, as his wrists burned and he felt the wet trickle of blood as old wounds became new again. The scratching...his eyes fell on rope, and immediately he understood. Hannibal had not untied him, but simply let him sleep that way. He yawned, struggling with a final tug, but as pain shot up his limbs he gave up. At least he had ungagged him - but just as that thought crossed his mind, his eyes fell on the tie Hannibal had used, and he realized that Hannibal had not, in fact, untied it, but it had simply come undone in his sleep. He looked over at the sleeping man to his side, so peaceful and calm as he slept, his arm wrapped around Will's waist, his head resting against Will's bound forearm on a satin-covered pillow. The man looked so serene.

"It is not polite to stare," came the gruff, voice of a sleepy Hannibal, hoarse as it always was in the mornings, his accent slurring his words a bit more than usual.

"It is not socially acceptable," Will amended, "Just as it is not socially acceptable to drug your lover, and leave him bound and gagged as he slept."

"Apparently the gag did not make it through the night," came the groaned response, as Hannibal sat up, and kissed Will. "Not that I mind."

"'Course not," Came Will's retort. "There is going to be a reckoning, you know," Will said lightly.

"I know. And then I will fuck you until you are unable to walk, until you are unable to speak, until the night ends, and you are too exhausted to stand up in the morning."

"How vulgar," Will laughed, but if he was not fighting the effects of what must have been the drugs, he would be, and was aroused.

"Indeed," Hannibal agreed, kissing Will again, "but true. You are mine, Will."

"I know," came the short response.


	12. Chapter 11 - Pt 2

_A/N: Yeah, this is super short, but it is the technically the second portion of chapter 11. (I am sorry, it's because of (insert vague word for spacey people here) on my part. Um. Lots of stuff happens here. Sorry in advance. Just...bear with me, okay? It was never fluffy, (except, perhaps once), and (this is a show about a cannibalistic serial killer, mind) dark. Humour me. Anyways, from here on out it gets interesting. Yay. Enjoy, hopefully._

* * *

Will had gone to go see Abigail that day, a long sleeved shirt both covering and irritating rope burns on his wrists, and he fought away annoyance that Hannibal had left him tied up like that, instead trying to focus on the girl in front of him, that too concealed marks with clothing. While she could cover scars with scarves, she could not conceal that pain that burned behind her eyes, consuming and encompassing, a different type of darkness than what Hannibal and Will possessed. Hannibal had informed him of his intentions for a family, and yet, when he looked at the broken girl before him, suddenly a sort of doubt washed over him. She was tortured, fighting a war she could not hope to win, yet struggling through it, bloody and beaten, using what little of her strength, her vitality she possessed to just stand and block it all away with a frozen mask of pale skin and tight lips. _Dysfunctional, indeed_, Will thought to himself, thinking about how ruined they all were, so damaged, so far from and so perfect.

Within Abigail, he saw pain, not pleasure, and a brief semblance of guilt washed over him, human decency as he ushered the girl from her hospital room, and into the car. He was not entirely sure why it was he was taking her to...that place, the place that began it, but he knew that one of them would come out different. He hoped to either trigger Abigail to understand them, or perhaps regain what he had lost. He briefly shook his head at himself - you cannot lose something you never had. That was the concept that he struggled with, knowing that it was easy to disguise cruelty as empathy - blame it on another, and hold no fault to yourself. He bit his lip in frustration, feeling a headache washing over him. The ecstasy Hannibal had given him that night was having some pretty horrible after effects, that was not something uncommon, Hannibal had asked he stayed home, but he was sure he would have been fine. And now, he ground his teeth, feeling a great deal of pain and nausea wash over him.

He pulled into the dirt driveway of the cabin, and wordlessly let Abigail out, ignoring her questions not because he wanted to, but because his mind was unable to construct answers to give her, even as she repeated them, peering around the cabin with large frightened eyes, keeping memories at bay with a strength and determination she was not sure it was possible to have. He watched curiously as some sort of undistinguishable emotion took control of her features, as she looked so terrified, as though desperate to escape, but some part of her insisted that she stayed, and that she looked..._looked at what she had done_. '_One you stalk, another you lure.' _"Jack Crawford was right about you," he said aloud in his fevour, marvelling in the way the words sounded to his own disillusioned ears, he was excited and horrified, exhilarated and betrayed, a masterpiece of contradiction and conflict, "You helped your father kill those girls...You killed them."

"No!" She exclaimed, taking a step away from Will, as though she were afraid, and that only made him feel more sick.

"You killed them," he repeated, stunned.

"No! No! No!" She began chanting the word, like it was some sort of life line, cutting off Will's words by placing a hand over her ears as though to suffocate the sound, and take from it the truth that the words held. She was different, so different...a pale painting of purity splattered in red from the sins of a thousand men, and it drummed in Will's head as a loss, some sort of loss, although if it was because Abigail's darkness was different from his own, or if it was because it was there at all, he was uncertain. Even as he debated that, she fled, and he fell to his knees, losing balance his limbs meeting hard wood floor as they fell without ceremony. Pain washed over him, and he shuddered. He did not want to move, as his body fought the after effects of what he just now realized was not ecstasy alone, and his mind fought itself.

_._

"Where is Will?" Hannibal asked Abigail, looking at the pale frightened bird before him.

"He...he was scaring me," She stuttered, "So I left him at the cabin. He knows, Hannibal. Will knows." As she said the words out loud, she looked horrified, and disgusted, her hands raising to her mouth as though to choke down the words, to realize that they were true. As though they had the potential for truth, and it was only in that moment did she truly recognize what she had done. "Oh...God."

"Jack Crawford knows too," Hannibal responded sadly.

"Jack...? If I run, they'll catch me, won't they? You can't protect me anymore." She briefly looked trapped, like a caged animal, before the resignation, the acceptance, as though this was what she deserved.

"They'll arrest you when they find you, yes. I managed to protect Will, but I could not protect you, Abigail," Hannibal stepped forward, lightly pulling the girls hand into his own.

"He..." Abigail looked down, as though suddenly confused, before meeting Hannibal's eyes, and her own eyes, already doe-like, widened, "You. Will always said whoever called the house that morning was the serial killer." And even though she knew the answer, the tentative question escaped her lips, unable to prevent herself from asking: "Why did you really call?"

"I wanted to warn your father that Will Graham was coming for him," He said simply.

"Why?" Again, the question left her lips with a sick sort of fascination, afraid yet curious.

"I was curious what would happen. I was curious what would happen when I killed Marissa," he added. Lightly pointing at Abigail, he continued: "I was curious what you would do."

"You wanted me to kill Nick Boyle."

"I had wanted you and Will to kill, yes, to become my _design._ So perfect was it in planning, and yet so faulted in structure. It is such a shame to watch so many things go to waste. I love you Abigail, I do," he said, smiling kindly, a feeling of dread and sorrow overwhelming him, and yet came the inescapable truth, "Yet, between you and Will, I will pick him. Every. Time. I have killed many people, many more than my father, and yet I doubt a death will effect me as much as yours will."

She stood rooted to the spot, as he gently stroked her cheek, and a tone full of kindness, he apologized.

"I'm sorry I couldn't protect you in this life."


	13. Chapter 12

_A/N: Holy shit, the new episode. I swear to God, if in the next one, after Will pulls the trigger he doesn't kiss Hannibal angrily, well...Yeah. Just imagine (warning fantasy alert): [**Hannibal could hear the click of the metal as Will pulled the hammer down, and for a brief moment, Hannibal considered death as something to be feared, not beautiful, horrific and terrifying as the one person he had ever truly wanted held it before him, threatening to take away his life. He heard the retract of the trigger, that cruel cold click as every logic would dictate should take from him his breath, and yet it was not death that stole his ability to breath, it was a hand tightening around his neck, forcing him against the wall behind him, and the familiar biting aggression and warmth against his lips as Will kissed him, fingers threading through his hair, and drawing him forward angry and equal.]** That would be so wonderful. Anyways, new chapter. Enjoy :3)_

* * *

A thundering knock broke Hannibal of his reverie, as Crawford, he was sure, pounded tactlessly on the other side of the door, threatening to break it as though it posed him physical offence. He glanced at his door, briefly annoyed yet again by the lack of consideration of the other, as he tormented his peace and chased it away, ghosts in his overbearing and indescribably infuriating presence. As much as Hannibal wanted to just ignore the man, he knew that the other would simply break through it like a uncivilized creature rather than abandon the efforts. Sighing, he answered the door, looking at the large man who looked strained and extremely irate (_Imagine that, he comes bearing down on my door early in the morning, and he's upset, _Hannibal thought). "Where is Will Graham?" He demanded. "He has been missing for days." 

"Will Graham has taken a leave of absence. After the death of Abigail, he has needed time to recuperate," Hannibal said stiffly. He was avidly trying not to insult the other verbally, although his mind was being very provisional and not helpful in the efforts.

"He's unstable," Crawford snapped.

"And that is why he is taking a break," Hannibal retorted. "Have you caught the killer yet, Jack?" Obviously not.

"No," Jack breathed the word out in a ragged rush of breath, as he continued: "Not much to go on. Just an ear and a lot of blood. She is obviously dead, but...we do not have much more than that. We need Will."

"Your need for Will is what broke him," Hannibal quipped. "He is unable to cope, Jack. And this is blood on your hands."

Jack physically flinched at the verbal assault, and then he responded, with fervour: "How do we know it wasn't Will?"

"Could not have been," Hannibal said. "I picked him up at the airport. He never went to the Cabin with Abigail." His mind flashed back to images of finding will crumpled on the floor, lost and empty even in his unconscious state, broken, shattered, and yet so beautiful. Hannibal lifted him from the floor, and brushed the hair from his face, smearing blood across his features before lightly kissing those soft lips...his mind chased away the images as he glared coldly at Jack.

Jack shook his head, "There is something so wrong about this."

Indeed there way.

Hannibal quickly ushered a very shallow-shelled Jack out of his office, not particularly of the desire to deal with the man for much longer, as he had already consumed so much time. Time that could otherwise be better spent. Hannibal walked to his bedroom, and slowly opened the door, revealing a half-concious, limb body as it hung from it's bindings on the wall, his very essence screaming exhaustion, his eyes unable to focus, as his head hung down, staring at the floor, at nothing. He gingerly lifted his head, and forced Will to meet his own eyes, and watched him fight through his own cloudiness to reach that rage that he had buried within himself, as he moaned: "You."

"Good morning, Will. Jack Crawford came looking for you again," Hannibal informed him.

"You're a monster..." Will murmured, completely ignoring Hannibal's statement.

"You and I are just alike," Hannibal replied.

"You killed Abigail..."

"Perhaps." The word came out easily, and Hannibal lifted Will's jaw, and kissed him, tenderly, gently, it was without control and without cruelty.

Will was unable to fight it, weak as he was, but he still managed to roll his lips, biting, but wanting to simply take the taste, the senstation of touch away, deprive himself of the way it made him feel and drown it in disgust. "I can never forgive you," He whispered.

"You will."

_._

Will groaned, his eyes struggling to adjust to the light in the bedroom as it assaulted his eyes. His body was worn, weak, and yet, when he pulled his wrist, it came free of the bindings, the soft nylon rope giving way, the ease suprising Will as he stumbled forward, but quickly and smoothly caught himself. His wrists bore old rope burns, but no knew ones, pale, yet contrasted so perfectly with the red. He could almost understand Hannibal obsession with it. His eyebrows narrowed, and his lips tightened. Hannibal... He dressed himself, flinching as his shirt met a particularly long cut on his back, one that he did not recall getting, which had meant that it had not been for sexual purposes. He did not know what it was for. He did not care anymore... Hannibal had destroyed everything, and there would be a reckoning.

He left Hannibal's office, barely able to stand, much less drive as he found himself at the FBI headquarters, talking to Jack Crawford, the very man who had come to find him a few days (weeks? He was not sure about time anymore) ago. He looked haggard and worn, and surprised to see him. "Will," the name was almost a sigh of relief, and yet an afraid warning all at the same time. Something in Will scared Crawford, as he took a step backward. He could not blame him, Will could feel the black as the darkness spread in him, angry and burning, a demon had taken possession of him and replaced him with this...this entity of nothingness. Hannibal was a demon.

"Hannibal killed Abigail," was the first thing out of Will's mouth.

Jack raised his eyebrows, "Will, that's absurd."

"He is also the copycat murderer," Will continued.

"Will..." 

"And the Chesapeake Ripper."

"You need rest," Jack said lightly, as though talking to a wounded animal that could maim and kill, but also needed protection. He was treading carefully, and Will could taste it, tangible in the air like a disgusting rotting pollution, and it revolted him, but at the same time, he could not bring himself to care.

"I have had enough rest. I have been on drugs for the past..." Will raised his hands to fill in the gap of understanding that was there. How much of his life had he spent in that state, hung up, weak and weary as Hannibal talked to him? "Hannibal was keeping me medicated."

"Because you're delusional, I would assume," Crawford snapped.

"I am thinking clearly." 

"You aren't, Will! You want someone to blame for the death of Abigail because you were close! And because you do not know who did it, your mind is making associations! You have been unstable for a while...remember when you came out of that murder scene, covered in blood, confused, believing that you had done it?"

"Hannibal made me do that," Will sighed, "to make me look unstable," but even as the words left his mouth, he realized...this was where this was going. This was where all this was going. Hannibal had been playing him for so very, very long. "I can't do this." 

"Can't do what, Will?"

Will left without answering Jack, completely ignoring the man, as he exited. He sat inside his car, eyes closed, mind alert, thinking...thinking... he bit his lip, and felt the blood trickle down. When had that become something that he did for comfort? He swiped the blood from his lip using the sleeve from his jacket, and stared down at his hands. These were the hands of a murderer - one that was Hannibal's construction. Ignoring the voice that whispered, _You were this way from the very start_, he gripped his steering wheel, thinking that if he was a murderer, the only thing left to do was to..._kill._

Perhaps, from the very beginning this was the way it was meant to be. Briefly, the voice whispered again, something ignored, unheard, the words an ultimate truth that Will recognized, but refused to realized, his very core screaming at the loss, echoing in the pain. Abigail...they were supposed to be a family, the three of them. His mind remembered the shattered look in her eyes, as she seemed to distanced from herself, wallowing in her misery, discontent with what she had become, battling the war between angels and demons, fallen from both of their graces, unwhole and human. She had been the one thing that Hannibal and he were not. And now, she was nothing.

Will shook his head. He would destroy Hannibal.

* * *

_A/N: It's not going to be like this for very much longer. Will's a bit emotional. I just like the whole cat and mouse thing in season 2. Fuck are they murdering my ship, but they are also making it far more exciting. *claps.*_


	14. Chapter 13

_A/N: I'm really flattered that so many people are reading this, to be honest. Thank you all :) Any ways, there is a bit of some brooding, little angst, a little reveal, and then violent sex (honestly, are you surprised?) then some elaboration in the next chapter. Um, I actually think Abigail being alive is canon, and that she is in Hannibal's basement, but I do not know for sure, so do not shoot me if I'm wrong. Theories, theories. Anyways, enjoy!)_

* * *

Betrayal bit at Hannibal's lips, his tongue meeting a scar in the soft tissue as he glared forward at nothing. He had known that this would happen, predicted it, and counted the days, but that did not change the fact that he did not like it. Deliberate planning and act of execution should be more about a systematic sequence of events that led right to where he wanted things to be, and yet, in the execution it did not feel as though he had initiated something wonderful, but instead offered his neck to take from him his essence. He could feel some intangible part of him bleed, and he wanted to rip and tear from himself the pain that he felt, as his short fingernails dug into the leather arm of his chair.

He had chosen Will over Abigail, and he had chosen her over him, even though he had known he would. It stung, like a serpent, left to burn within him, leaving nothing but the bitter taste of poison as it ate him from the inside out. Will Graham was the mongoose to chase away the snakes, not one of them, so why did he feel so sick? He could still feel the rage within the other man as it consumed him, and burned him, as he looked upon Hannibal with such conflicted sort of hatred, and even when he closed his eyes, Hannibal could still see the image. It was fragmented - what had they become? He tried to recall the look of crimson on those pale features, but all he could think about was those eyes, cold and distant and so very very powerful in their anger. It was beautiful, and heart-breaking.

One could not break a heart, and yet, the agony was still there. Hannibal was torn between that excitement and that pain, as he wondered how long it would take, how long until the next stage of the plan came to fruition. He had planned this, but that did not stop it from being painful. Sentimentalities - Will had given him sentimentalities, and that alone was a display of the control Will had over him, as his mind flickered briefly to the armour outside of his bedroom, standing guard over something more profound than that. He had taken it down after Will's escape, as Will had taken so much from him, that there was nothing left for it to protect. He had let Will free, looking at the unconscious man had lost it's appeal, and instead left him feeling sick. Now, he was sure Will would do whatever he could to wreck the life Hannibal had constructed, and to rip the 'person suit' from his flesh to display his true self to the world, open, vulnerable, and destructive.

He had wondered what Will would do now, after his conversations with Jack proved to be not helpful for his situation. The man had apparently spoken to Jack Crawford already, and displayed himself without adornments before him, and then, a week later, retracted his statement and apologized. He himself had used the word _delusional_ and yet, he still could not be found. He had disappeared, and Hannibal was laying in wait, yet at the same time resignation. What happened after this was up to Will Graham, not him, nor anyone else. Will had two choices: accept the unforgivable and fully bear his soul to the monster within himself, or continue to hide within his sense of decency, and take from Hannibal all that he had left - His life. For there is no pride to hold when you have lost the only thing that matters.

_Ah, sentiment again, _it was so odd that Will had instilled within him something that he detested, illogical irrational emotions as they seized control of a person. Emotions were a God to demand others to obey, and while he was subject to them, never before had they ruled over his logical perception of the world. It was disgusting and intriguing. Something that could be said about Hannibal's and Will's relationship as a whole, not that he agreed, but he was sure that if anyone were to know the semantics of it...well. Hannibal closed his eyes, _what was their relationship now_?

He did not know.

Days past, and in them, many lives ended and began, a sun rose and plummeted back into the earth, and Hannibal cared not for any of it. Time had become an illusion, and with it, each moment passed both slowly and quickly, like boring ticks of mundane life. He had done nothing other than take patients and draw, losing himself to the pitiful boredom that had befallen him. It was almost as though he were pouting, and he recognized that within himself. It was awful and he did nothing about it, other than continuing to simply exist, like a sheep without a shepherd. How...revolting.

He rose, startled from his desk when his door was kicked in, the sound echoing in the quiet walls, a crescendo to the silence. Will walked in, alive like a wildfire, a licking flame of violence as his eyes met Hannibal's. He looked...there were no words for what he looked like. How could you describe something that was like air, as you breathed it in it both killed you and made you more enthralled, more profound than smoke, as it procured an existence such as this? A rage that stole and devoured, radiating from this entity as he looked upon Hannibal with those forest eyes, wretched and wicked. The man raised the silver barrel of his pistol, and Hannibal peered down it, for the first time in his life feeling fear.

The one thing he loved would take from him the last thing he had, leaving him in an empty abyss with nothing, and that was what he saw in the barrel: that nothing. It was emptiness. Hannibal met Will's eyes as he held the gun up to Hannibal's forehead, and watched as he pulled down the barrel, listening to the metallic click as it promised demise. He closed his eyes, he did not want to see the expression on his lover's face as he took his life, knowing that he had pushed the man to this point, knowing that he had taken from him what made him so...what made him so beautiful. He heard Will pull the trigger, and he flinched, expecting his demise, expecting the darkness to overcome him, to take from him his ability to breath. He briefly considered death, and it was in this moment, something to be feared, not beautiful, instead horrific and terrifying as the one person he had ever truly wanted held it before him - threatening to take away his life.

That cold cruel sound should have taken from him his ability to breathe, and yet, it was hands wrapping around his neck in the silence as he slowly, confused, opened his eyes, as he was thrust backward, head hitting the wall behind him just gently, that was what took his breath away, before lips met his, taking with it the very last possibility of regaining the ability to breath, to inhale, to live, as death was barren, lost and yet ever present, a threat that hung in the taste of the other's mouth, ragged and ravage in the anger as it bred within them. Will's fingers threaded through his hair, drawing him forward with the familiar biting aggression and warmth, powerful and dominating, and Hannibal feared him. Nevertheless, the warmth was welcomed, and Hannibal found himself kissing back, hesitant, but confident. "I will never forgive you," came the hoarse whisper, as Will jerked Hannibal's hair, pulling his head back, and bearing the man's neck to his teeth.

"You don't need to," Hannibal responded quietly, flinching lightly as Will drew blood from a sensitive section of skin.

"No," Will replied simply. "But you knew that."

"There is a lot I know," the words slipped from Hannibal's mouth, and although arrogant on their own, they sounded...humble.

"And a lot you don't know," Will licked the blood from Hannibal's neck, and Hannibal glanced at the man, who had long since embraced who he was - he wasn't the fragile little thing that Crawford handled with clumsy fingers, but something predatory and strong. "I found her."

Hannibal tried to step back in shock, trying to get a better look at the man at his neck, but there was only the wall behind him, and Will was exerting such control that he found himself unable to escape. Those forest eyes flickered to his, looking so passive it was exhilarating. "You found Abigail?"

"Yes." And it was just that simple. Will pressed a hand against Hannibal's chest, fingers undoing one of his buttons, before biting one of the man's collarbones. "Although I'll admit it was only after I had decided to do this." He undid another button, and Hannibal cradled Will closer, a hand slipping up the back of the man's shirt, feeling tenser muscles of a man who had power threading through his core. He had begun exercising more, sparring more, because physical strength was inherently useful if you were to overpower, dominate, and take the life of another person. He had found Abigail, and it was much sooner than what Hannibal had wanted - he had wanted Will to return before he told him...before. He had wanted to wait before telling him that Abigail was alive.

Will soon enough was tearing the vest and jacket from Hannibal's body, not bothering to do the buttons of the red button up shirt. He did not have the patience for it, and as he grabbed Hannibal's tie, he drew him by force, and threw him onto the floor, threatening to choke him in just a simple action. It was violent, and painful, but exciting, and Hannibal licked his lips, Abigail forgotten, instead thinking of the power that sat on top of him, painting him colours of purple, red and blacks as he bit, sucked, and bled. _Carnivorous beasts_...the thought slipped into Hannibal's head, as he grabbed Will's collar, and met his lips with his own. That taste, he could not get enough of it, the smell, so earthy, like sandalwood, and fresh air, the smell of the woods in the middle of the night, when the floor is damp, and all you smell is the lovely smell of purity and prey.

_God forbid we become friendly..._he thought again as he wiped blood from his lips, _because we are something that offends him. Something powerful and perverse, and even he would be aroused by our obscenity. _Hannibal had slowly, languidly began to unbutton Will's shirt, only to let out a frustrated groan when it revealed a plain grey undershirt. Will, wordlessly pulled back from the new pattern of bruises that decorated Hannibal's shoulder, and pulled the shirt off in a graceful movement, throwing it to his side before sliding against Hannibal, their chests touching another as Will leaned down to kiss Hannibal once again, their mouths tasting like the familiarity of each other, the fervour, the passion, the blood. It tasted exquisite.

"I'll never forgive you," Will repeated.

"You'll never have to." Hannibal smiled this time, the truth in them evident to both of them. Will could not forgive Hannibal for something that he had not done, whether it was Abigail, the scars, or turning Will Graham into what he was, for this is how it always had been. Dig into, and tear from the flesh something that was already there. Hannibal had crushed the last of Will's forts, revealing only what Will was - this. This... Will unbuttoned Hannibal's trousers, revealing Hannibal's cock, which he easily took into his mouth, licking from it the taste of salt. Neither Will nor Hannibal were vocal, but a hoarse shuddering breath did escape Hannibal as Will's mouth and head moved to a rhythm of an unheard song, echoing in both their ears. Hannibal's hand slipped down the back of Will's trousers, a finger prodding for the entrance into the man, before he plunged two fingers within him, drawing a brief gasp from the man, as he had been without the sensation for several weeks. Hannibal had long forgotten how much time had passed, but in the end it did not matter, as he fucked into Will with his digits the same song that Will was using to suck him.

Hannibal rocked into the mouth of the other, before he used his free hand to jerk Will away, and shove him onto his own back on the cold floor, before he stood up, his cock free as he towered over Will, before turning and opening a drawer, revealing a familiar blue bottle. This time, it was just lubricant, and yet, it could have been anything as he gently stroked it onto himself, meeting Will's eyes as the other lay on the ground, as he jerked himself over the other man, watching the heat in his eyes before he kneeled back down, and drew him to him, forcing himself in a quick forceful movement inside of Will. Fingernails clawed into his back, and he began cruel thrusts into the other's body, and he grabbed the man by the neck, drawing him up to meet him in a kiss, hard as it was as he continued to pound into the other's body, their tongues moving in time, before Will broke the kiss, biting Hannibal's lip, his neck, his jaw, before he whispered in a ragged sort of voice: "Fuck me harder."

Hannibal groaned, and kissed the words from those lips, each thrust becoming more violent, going deeper, pressing further inside of Will, while his hand stroked Will, teasing him with movements that alternated between slow and gentle and harsh and fast. "I will ruin you," Hannibal groaned in response, infinitely aroused, and he licked the blood from his lips, his fingers finding his pocket knife as he fished it from his pocket, and held it against Will's neck, just light enough to cut into the man, and draw blood which he kissed as he came. Will came in Hannibal's hand, his hand gripping Hannibal's wrist, freeing the blade from his fingers, as he kissed Hannibal, drawing his lips to a better purpose. They lay there for a while, listening to each other's laboured breathing, again finding themselves in cum, sweat and blood. Will held his palm to his neck, even though he knew that the cut as superficial before he licked the blood from it, meeting Hannibal's eyes as he did. The other man groaned, and kissed him, taking the taste of blood within himself, before he rolled over, trapping Will beneath him, once again aroused.

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_A/N: I used the bit at the beginning of the previous chapter. I liked it too much._


	15. Chapter 14

_A/N: Good afternoon lovely people. It has been a while since I've updated this, and I'm terribly sorry. Is that something to be apologetic for? Kind of an arrogant concept. Any ways, this chapter is entirely plot - no sex, sorry. But there is violence, if that sort of thing makes you happy. (It makes me happy.) So...canon... *excited* "I have to deal with you...and my feelings for you." Yup. Gay. I'm super excited on the other side of the monitor. And Will is all dangerous now - I love it. Anyways, I've finished my silly rambling. Enjoy (and thank you so much for the reviews!)!_

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Will pushed the knife further into the chest cavity, further tearing the flesh, revealing a heart beating frantically to pump the blood that was empting itself in a pool at the man's feet. With a quick movement, he severed the his kidney, not a trophy for himself, he had already taken his. He looked up at the man, watching as his eyes flickered, and his head rolled while he tried to retain conciousness as the blood poured from him, making him fade. It was almost as though he believed by watching Will he might live, he might see the entirety of what was going to be done to him. It was so far from a possibility - him living, that it was almost amusing to Will as he stepped backward from his work, looking onward with dispassionate eyes, holding the man's organ by his side in a light grip as to do no harm. Hannibal wanted to make kidney pies today. He licked his lips, as the hand that previously clutched the man's neck went limp, lifeless and dead, and yet fixed to its position there by the rope that clung tightly to the skin, digging and burrowing into the flesh, as though he had hang himself, as though he had tried to save himself, as though it mattered while he bleed out, his life slipping with each ounce that now pooled at his feet.

What lay within this man had meant more buried inside rather than exposed than his own life. Will had exposed everything, maybe not his secrets, but just that he was the same as the rest of humanity: blood, marrow, bones and flesh, and yet he had defied that nature, contorting it into something appalling. He was a disgrace, and Will, for lack of better terms, had put him back in his place, and turned him into something red. _This is my design_, he thought, looking at the emptiness that stood before him, unable to stand on it's own toes any more, and simply hanging like a god forsaken doll, unable to breath, unable to move, unable to live. He was no longer human, and it was righteous. He gently kicked the hollow shell before him, listening as the ropes protested the movement, the swinging, as background noise to fill the silence while he walked away.

Hannibal's eyes met his, and again, that heated look that rose in his eyes whenever Will arrived covered in blood was there, the manic eyes of a murderer, as they stared at each other. Hannibal loved the way the crimson purity conflicted with the man's pale skin, the way that he looked so powerful, not fragile, not broken, but dominating and fully in control. Hannibal took a few steps forward, eyes falling to the way the red-stained white collar clung to his neck, still wet and saturated. Will wordlessly lifted a crime scene bag to fill the space between them, and in it, he saw a crudely cut portion of a previous entity. "You went shopping," he said simply, although the crime scene bag and the state of him...of everything indicated that the item had not been purchased with money.

"One could say that," he responded, handing the bag over to Hannibal as he stripped the soaked shirt from his deft limbs, concrete fibres of tightly controlled strength flexing with the movements as he placed it in an unused sink. "The merchant was a contemptuous perverse little..." Will trailed off.

"You are contemptuous and perverse," Hannibal said lightly.

"Ah, but never would I hurt children, and think I am better for it," Will retorted, his voice, his entirely being calm as he looked at Hannibal.

"They say psychopaths are led by principles - that each individual is held to a certain standard, and those that do not meet it are not worthy of living, What is your principle, Will?"

Will shook his head, gently, before he responded: "I will tell you once I know."

Hannibal nodded briefly, before agreeing, "Although, I must agree, those who rape children are non-deserving of life."

"I find it vulgar," Will said simply.

"I do as well," he drew a knife across the kidney, splitting it into sections to make it fit easier into the mincer.

"I am almost excited for when Crawford finds the body. 'Work of a psychopath, no clear motive,'" Will quoted. "I seem to be saying that a lot recently."

Hannibal smirked at the dialogue Will was having, not particularly with Hannibal, just more or less in general, as he slipped the organ into a mincer along with a collection of various other ingredients, before asking a somewhat spaced-out, "What would you like to have for desert?"

"Something white," Will responded, "without any sort of chocolate, rich, but not overly so. Other than that, it is up to you,"

"Ah, you always manage to narrow the field down, and still leave it so open," Hannibal sighed.

"I live to complicate," Will said gently.

"So I have noticed," came the quick, distant reply as Hannibal continued preparing the food.

"A private school in Paris?" Will asked, breaking the silence that had been ongoing, straining against time as it lengthened, yet comfortably as neither were entirely disagreeable to the atmosphere. It was not strained, just each individual was so lost in his own thoughts, it never occurred to them to speak them aloud. It was kind, and yet now, as Hannibal's eyes met Will's, they resumed communication flawlessly as though it had never ceased.

"I thought it would be best for her. She had too much going on here, and you saw her, too conflicted and confused to stay apart of her own life. She was not like us, Will." He felt the need to get that point across - how much she had been failing to accept what she had done, how much she was struggling, and how desperately she needed an escape. It was such an odd thing, and yet, he understood it. Will nodded, lightly, the movement almost indistinguishable as an action, before he spoke softly,

"I know."

"She is getting a good education. She wants to go into law," Hannibal smiled lightly. "When she finishes her Bachelors, she says she will return - to us, to her fathers."

Will looked down, a sudden flush of emotion welling within him, unable to dis-concern what it was, but it hung on the words: "All of her fathers have hurt her."

"I harmed her to save her, Will, as did you. Garrett Jacob Hobbs intended only to hurt in his love, to kill, and yet we let her survive. Survive past all of this, survive until she is married, old, and weathered by time. It is beautiful, we have given her life."

Will sighed, and stretched his arms before him, placing his head within them with exhaustion from the mental strain. He was tired, and weary, and yet...pleased. Abigail could have a new life, even though they had already taken so much from the girl. He shook away the thoughts that plagued him, but freedom was not something that is easily sustained, a few breaths of silence, of peace before the phone in his pocket vibrated, and he gingerly puled it out, looking at the name of the caller ID (his previous phone had not had such a thing, and Hannibal had seen the...simpleness of his old mobile phone and replaced it with obscene expenditure. _Consider it an anniversary gift_, he had said.) Jack Crawford was calling him, and he could almost feel the urgency seeping out of the digital device, assaulting him with the torrtent that raged within the FBI agent.

Will sighed, and Hannibal nodded, before slowly taking a sip from his glass, licking droplets from lips with such deliberation it was almost vulgar in it's seduction. Will tore his eyes away, and instead gingerly tapped the answer button on the screen of the phone. "Hello Jack," Will greeted, trying not to sound too terribly and obviously displeased.

"Hello Will," Jack responded, before launching his stream of one-sided dialogue. "We found another body. These are becoming more frequent, Will. This one has traces of both the Ripper and the Reaper." Will closed his eyes, hearing again the name he had been given. Reaper - assigned because they felt as though he simply took life, and usually pulled something away. Jack had explained it in great detail when Will had initially displayed his disgust: _It's like a sick glorification,_ he had said, but his true distaste was that reapers made the deaths seem natural, when it was so clearly a brutality. Still, Ripper and Reaper sounded nice together, side by side.

"You think they are the same person? The Ripper and the Reaper?" Will questioned, biting back a laugh as Hannibal's eyes flickered to him, narrowing slightly. He was not angry, no, it was more like a dark, questioning amusement that played in the other man's features as he met Will's, each looking at the other, fighting smirks, and knowing eyes.

"I think it is a possibility. We need you here, Will. Bring Hannibal Lecter, if you can."

"I will see if I can find him," Will replied lightly, while the other drained his glass, and set it down lightly on the black and white marble counter top.

_._

"Well, isn't this interesting," Hannibal said, as he peered at the hanging body, "He choked the life out of himself," he commented.

"What?" Jack looked at Hannibal, irritated, "He was - oh, you mean that the mentality of the killer."

"Yes."

"He was obscene, and secluded. He kept something about himself secret, something that the...one who did this felt was a betrayal against the species. He wanted to bear that secret to the world, and deprive this man of the capacity to conceal it, even in death." Will spoke aloud, walking around the body of the man who had died just the night before. "He ought to at least have had the decency to hang himself."

"That's...insane," Crawford breathed the words, and he saw Hannibal's shoulders shake, in fought back mocking laughter.

"Perhaps," Will replied lightly, shooting a glare at his lover.

Crawford looked between the two, taking Will's glare for hostility instead of a playful look, "You two still at odds?"

Will bit back a retort, and instead said simply: "No."

Hannibal supplemented the response, unable to leave it alone, "Will was emotionally compromised, and I forgive him for the...things he said. We have resolved our issues." Will nodded mutely, noticing all the while that Hannibal carefully avoided using words like 'lies.' Hannibal had not said whether or not those things were true. _Clever bastard_.

"We think that it might be the same person, or at least related. They each had similar but different kill patterns. They both perform, each have a great attention to detail, the bodies displayed to an audience, but the Ripper brutalizes his victims and takes their organs. The Reaper severs the connections to conciousness. He likes to watch them fade. We don't know if he takes trophies, or if he does, what they are."

Will thought to the small vials on a shelf in Hannibal's...basement, which he continuously tried not to think of it as a dungeon. It was disturbingly sexual and yet safe (to conceal), and he frequently tried not to make comments to Hannibal about it relating to fetishism, which was immensely difficult. All those chains and tools and devices, well...Still, he liked the way the little glasses looked in the middle of it all, shining in the faded light, almost black from the darkness still retaining the sheen of their true colour.

He looked disenchanted at the body once more, and then said: "They both are sadists. Killing makes them feel powerful, and they derive pleasure from it."

"Fucking crazy," Crawford muttered, and the word echoed in his mind, _Perhaps._

_._

Hannibal was tired of getting visitors, they seemed to come and go, and he knew that the person on the other side of the door was not who he wanted to see. That man had left a while ago, words on his lips about how he needed to feed his dogs. Hannibal was considering putting a fence in the backyard just so that the dogs could stay here, for God's sakes. Not that he cared about animals, one way or another, he saw the appeal for dogs but their simplicity and overall character was...non desirable. He did not much care for pets. Still, they meant a lot to Will, which still surprised Hannibal. A psychopath with empathy for animals, it was interesting that it was devoid when it came to people. Maybe it was due to the fundamentally cruel nature of people, resulting in the contemptuous antisocial behaviour, but - Hannibal cut his thoughts off, psychoanalysing Will was not the best of ideas.

He opened the door and looked at a consistently ruffled and slightly arrogant natured Dr. Chilton as he looked at Hannibal briefly, before peering into the empty office, gaze falling on the open book Hannibal had been reading before asking: "Might I come in?"

Hannibal stepped aside, allowing entrance, "To what, might I ask, do I owe this visit?"

"Will Graham."

Hannibal's eyes narrowed as he followed Chilton's movements around his office. "Oh?" He was unable to keep the dangerous tone out of his voice, but it went unnoticed by the other man as he looked at the onyx statue of a stag.

"I suspect that he is the Ripper - and, perhaps the Reaper," Chilton said, and Hannibal's hand clenched in response.

"You frequently accuse men of being who they are not," Came Hannibal's reply.

"Blood is hard to wash out from underneath fingernails, Dr. Lector." Hannibal's mind flickered to images of those pale hands as they stretched forward, lightly crazing the skin on his chest, the red a blatant tell of the lie, of the secret that they kept. Hannibal stepped forward, watching as Chilton's expression faded from pompous to concerned, as the larger man advanced, wanting to renew the world he had created, and reconstruct the silence.

"I suppose, I should have considered you," the words slipped out, and Hannibal slipped the switch-blade from his pocket out, flicking it open as he held it against the other's throat. "You two were always so close. Let me ask you, what good will come out of killing me?"

"His life, as it is inherently more valuable than yours."


	16. Chapter 15

_A/N: Just...sorry. It's less sad then canon, though. Also, I know the chapters vary a lot in length. I'm really really sorry about that. When I write regularly the chapters are usually like...7k words. But this is all over the place. I enjoy the reviews and those who are still reading this! Thank you._

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Will looked at Hannibal as he sat languidly in his chair, fingers wrapped delicately around a fragile glass filled with crimson liquid, similarly matched in colour to the liquid that had stained his suit, and clung to his slightly weathered skin, like a sinister and beautiful painting. Slowly he looked down the other man, following the cold gaze to a mess of black hair, shredded skin, and a brutalized mangled mess of flesh. Whites, reds, pinks, and blacks and purples all meshing together into an unrecognisable figure, and yet, it was clearly Chilton, his face peering onward with wide horrified eyes. It was appalling. Carefully avoiding the pools of liquid life that clung to expensive carpet and hardwood, Will stepped toward the other man, pulling his face into his hands, looking into those maroon eyes. "What happened?"

"He knew," Hannibal said simply. "And I did not handle it as rationally as I wish I would have."

"Whenever someone has threatened you in the past, you have handled it well. Why him?"

"It was not me he was threatening - it was you," those maroon eyes finally looked back, the cold and yet passionate eyes of a murderer.

Will's lips met Hannibal's, tasting the pungent sweet taste of wine, fierce and violent, before Hannibal lightly pushed him away. "I don't think this is entirely appropriate, given the situation."

"Nothing about this is appropriate," replied, pulling the hand away from his chest, and licking biting Hannibal's neck. "We are obscene creatures to defile the very dignity of God."

Hannibal pulled Will's chin up, his lips crashing down on his in response, taking with it the ability of either to speak, rendering them to the sounds of each other as they simply lived, hearts beating the frantic pace of excitement and vitality such a perverse contradiction to the death that surrounded the two - Reaper and Ripper, such absurdities as they both had names, real names, and they each were real people, sitting in this moment, the heat from each other radiating between their shared breaths. Gasps and low moans as they bit the other's lips, licked their tongues, and scraped teeth. It was an absurd aspect of life, that even as death plagued the world, and clung to the skin of the fallen, they could still find themselves in this moment, drinking the essence of each other.

Will shrugged the soaked shirt from Hannibal's shoulders baring skin tainted with traces of pink that had bleed through the fabric and smeared on his limbs like the body paint of a soldier. He tried not to look back at the mess behind him, he tried not to look at the horror that made life so beautiful as he trailed his hands up Hannibal's chest, watching at those maroon eyes followed his movements, before his hand caught his own, inspecting the fingers like foreign entities before he pulled them into his mouth, suckling them seductively, licking them while fixedly watching Will's expression.

Will watched the actions almost disenchanted but equally aroused, as he shoved Hannibal backwards, and bit his collarbone, while his freehand unbuttoned the man's trousers, flattening his palm against the hardness he found within. Hannibal let out a hiss of breath, withdrawing Will's fingers from between his lips, as his hand wound with Will's leading him into his undergarments, where skin met skin, the warmth and silky sensation rubbed within Will's palm, as he pulled, lightly, gingerly, pumping the other's cock in his hand. Hannibal nuzzled Will's neck, before nipping the skin, sucking it until he could feel Will shudder, releasing it to it's freedom, exposing now-purple skin. This man looked so beautiful bruised that it was all Hannibal could do not to cover the other's body with the bites.

"Will," Hannibal murmured, his accent slurring his words more than usual as he licked a path from his jawbone to his collarbone, dragging his teeth along, raising the skin, "I want to fuck you."

"Vulgar," Will responded.

"You should see yourself," Hannibal responded, shoving the other onto the ground, pulling another kiss from the man's lips as he let go of member, the hand weaving instead in the hair at the back of his head. Fingers wove themselves inside of Will, drawing a inhale of breath from the intrusion and from the brief flicker of pain as Hannibal had not used lubricant. It hurt, and that only made Will want it to hurt more - to hurt Hannibal more. As kind as this was, as none of the blood between them was their own, there was still that desire, burning deep within, suspended for a moment in their affections for the other, even as Will took into his mouth part of Hannibal's shoulder, feeling the skin tear ever so slightly beneath his teeth, and yet not drawing blood. It was too tender, and yet there as the undercurrent of violence as Hannibal pushed himself, without warning into Will's entrance.

With each thrust, nails only found themselves digging deeper into Hannibal's back, drawing him closer as their bodies collided, Will arching his back to meet the movements. Gentle kisses trailed down Will's torso, and Hannibal savoured each moment of it. The thumb of his hand supporting Will's waist, rubbed against the scar beneath the other's hipbone, tracing the healed scar of his initials, still pink in age _HL_. He wondered briefly, just a fleeting thought, what the other had thought when he'd seen it while they were separated, whether he paused in the shower when he saw it, whether... he stroked Will's member, pulling at the delicate skin, watching as Will leaned back, his eyes watching the scene as though it were not happening to him, and yet with each movement, he felt it, arousal peaking, feeling the shuddering of the other man as he came, feeling as the movements quickened, drawing him to his own climax, mounting pleasure and a sort of hungry feeling settling over him as he pulled himself up, not entirely disconnecting his body from Hannibal's as he kissed the man, feeling as the other drew out in a slow movement, while the heat still remained in his body.

They showered and began to clear out the massacre that had occurred, cleaning stains from furniture as it seeped into the expensive fabric. Most of it was darkly coloured, and easily restored, even the carpet looked free from the sin it now carried. Limbs were carried to the basement, a final decoration of macabre for Hannibal's...dungeon. Will walked over to his shelf, picking up vials, unlabelled except for little ticks on the corks, and rolling them between his fingers, the liquid inside cool against his palms, long ago reaching room temperature. In this darkness, he could still see the crimson sheen, and it was beautiful, like the vitality bottled and preserved.

He set the final vial back down, as a hand wrapped around his waist and lips met his neck, muttering nothings in the space between them, filling the silent air. "I waited so long for you," were the only words that were intelligible in the murmurings. Will leaned back against the sturdy body that braced him, and just spent moments there, feeling as they slipped by, unquantifiable and perfect as somewhere a clock ticked away time, unheard to either of them, and the passage of time because insignificant with the other. Even in the midst of madness, they were content to simply be with each other. Madness was the medicine for the modern world - and within it, bloomed their love for each other, unspoken but felt. Each was concious of the other, and somehow, even as the sense of foreboding settled on them, they sought comfort in the other.

Something so disturbing, and they found sanctuary in the other - perhaps they did not deserve the other, the happiness it brought, the peace, even as they smiled at each other, wicked with the cruelty of a cannibalistic Cheshire cat, smirking at the undignified violence. Some would say it was sickening, some would say that it was a horrendous offence against God himself, but where was God when life lost it's meaning, only to be replenished in death? What made life so beautiful was that ultimate end, and the struggle to defy that inevitability. Life was given meaning in moments like this, moments that let time slip by unconsidered and unimportant. Yet, even in the silence, they both knew that this couldn't last, and eventually, water will slip through fingertips, and the sand will descend the seconds, the minutes the hour, and time will, at last, run out.

_._

Jack Crawford sat at his desk, his head resting in his palms, as he stared down at his desk, his eyes wide and unfocused. His heart was pounding in his chest, burdened by the sickening feeling of dread as it weighed on him. He had not wanted to believe it. Had never imagined that it was possible and yet, it was foolish to ignore the indication. A letter lay beneath him, although he had long since stopped looking at it after reading it for what felt like the hundredth time, the words engraved into his mind, seething burning traces of what he did not want to believe, what he could not believe. Still, Chilton was just a man who had drove one of his own patients to kill - was he even a worthy source of evidence, much less, was his opinions even valid? Crawford tried not to count the days the man had been missing, tried not to consider that he might have missed something that had been next to him all along. It was... implausible.

A knock sounded on the hollow wood of his office door, hesitant yet confident in pace. "Jack?" Came Beverly's curious voice, and it broke Jack from his reverie, and he looked at her with weary eyes and a tired mind. He tried to shake the contents of the letter from his mind, tried to free himself of the possibilities as they overwhelmed him, sicking and disturbing, and yet, he was unable.

"I want you to investigate Hannibal Lector. He is..." Crawford looked away from Katz, somehow feeling ashamed of his next words, as he continued: "Under suspicious for being the Chesapeake Ripper."


End file.
